Where Spirits Tread
by blue and gold
Summary: —A series of mysterious and brutal murders have been plaguing the countryside, and when Hiyori meets a strange boy in the forest, she can't help but wonder—is he the hero, or the killer? – [Warring States Period, AU]
1. The Forest of Towering Pines

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_Chapter 01:_

_The Forest of Towering Pines_

.

.

.

.

.

Hiyori brushed her fingertips against the tree's leaves. It had only begun flowering a few years ago; this summer, she imagined, it would bear fruit, too. She recalled seeing hawthorn berries—dried—at the market, once, with her father. They had come in different shades, varying between a deep red and a rich–looking amber. She wondered, quietly, hands pressed to the spiny leaves, what color fruit this one would bear.

Her father had once told her that golden berries were the best—and Oda, with all his knowledge of herbs and their medicinal purposes, would know. _Still,_ he had added, _whatever it offers is well and good._

Humming, Hiyori crouched down, into the thick blades of tall grass that swayed past her stooped back. She rummaged through the shrub's foliage, 'til she found the scragly–looking bark, and the lumped soil where the roots had taken hold. _Nothing _looks_ wrong._ She decided.

(But, her father would know better—he checked up on his herbs often enough to know when one was in poor condiition; nonetheless, when he was busy tending to the injured or ill—like today—he would send her in his stead.) Hiyori's mother often fretting over it—_I don't like either of you out and about in that forest—_but Hiyori chalked it up to her mother's weariness of all things spiritual.

_Although…_ She frowned, standing up. She looked to the sky—a deep, dreary grey. Soon, it would be dark altogether. She pursed her lips, tightening her shawl around her shoulders, and holding its knot with a clenched hand. _I should get back before it's nighttime._

Hiyori turned, watching the tall grass sway in the late afternoon blusters. Then, she pushed past it, carefully picking her way through the sea of greenery; then, when the turf began to slope, the hill declining, she watched her footing. She kept walking, down the slope of the hill, 'til she reached the borderline between the clearing and the forest.

Trees loomed overhead—most of them pines, their stalks stripped bare, except for the bark, 'til their very tops, which bristled with thick clumps of needles.

She peered into the deep woods—where the shadow of the day was dull in the clearing, it was dark and harsh in the forest; concealing.

_There's nothing to be afraid of,_ Hiyori told herself, without even knowing that she had been fearful in the first place. Still, she swallowed, braced herself—for what, she did not know—and plunged into the thick of the woods.

.

.

.

Hiyori walked down the path.

In the woods, all was shadowy and quiet—colors, sound, light, and time itself seemed to have deserted her. All that seemed to breathe was her and the trees, and they were withdrawn companions. All she heard was her feet, thumping down the path. All she felt was the cool air against her skin. All she heard was her breath. All she smelled was the pines.

It unnerved her; the silence and the dark, and how they offered nothing. So, every once in a while, Hiyori was not surprised to find herself glancing without reason. Fearing without reason.

_No,_ she thought, looking ahead, down the path, _not without reason._

Rumors had been spreading, as they often did, from the mouths of merchants and within town markets—about a mysterious series of slaughters that had been plaguing towns in the countryside. The victims ranged from drunkards to wealthy denizens, and not motive or pattern could be discerned from the actions. All that was known was that the murders were vicious—rage–filled and unwarranted.

But, even more disturbing was that, every time a culprit was convicted—imprisoned, tortured, killed—of the crimes, another murder would occur, towns over. Another person's name was then cleared; but the public remained in fear—the killer, at large.

People had different explanations for the murders.

_It's the times,_ some said. _So much turmoil in the Capital can only lead to chaos here._

_No, it's bandits,_ other claimed. _They've been running amok—what's another body, to them?_

_It's the gods,_ said some. _It's their punishment!_

And then there were others—others like Hiyori's mother—who blamed spirits of a different kind._ Ayakashi,_ Chikako said, when all others doubted it. And she believed it, too, with every fiber of her being. There was a faith in her—one that stemmed from fear and distrust. (The fear that made her scold Hiyori for going into the forest—and her husband, for going whenever he was called for.)

Hiyori felt a shiver tremble down her spine. She quickened her pace, soil and leaves crunching underfoot.

While her mother's beliefs were sometimes strangely adamant, no one had ever dared to suggest she was dimwitted for it. Chikako was intelligent for her years, and if something frightened her, it was wise to be weary of it, despite your own opinions.

Even the younger children of the village had gotten wind of the happenings—parents no longer allowed them out, towards sunset. Workers came in earlier from the rice fields every day. Animals were herded in to the stables and pastures. Merchant travel had slowed. Markets were nearly empty.

Everyone was watching—and waiting.

The dim afternoon was beginning to bleed into sunset—the grey of the sky, what little of it Hiyori could see through the thickness of the treetops, was changing to orange as dusk drew near. The dark greens and browns of the forest took on a strange light, as though they were something of another world.

Hiyori tightened her shawl around her shoulder. She bustled farther down the path.

(Hiyori was waiting, too, though—for something to happen. For answer, as much as anyone else. Like village elders were, as they crowded around their shrines, praying to gods for mercy, forgiveness, and protection. Like the children were, as they clung to their parents, who understood no more than they did themselves. Like her mother was, lying on her futon after bouts of spouting on about yōkai.)

And Hiyori feared it like they did, too. Not only for herself, but for her father, too.

Oda's reputation preceded him. (Especially since the many of the regional doctors had left in search of better work and pay, on the battlefields near the Capital.) What he could offer was in high demand, and it had him traveling from village to village consistently.

And Hiyori worried for him, as did her mother.

Bandits were rampant. Diseases were contagious. And with the recent happenings… Travelling was dangerous, especially by oneself.

But Oda refused to cease his efforts. (_"I help people," _he told Hiyori, ruffling her hair fondly. _"The risk is worth the reward."_) And Hiyori admired her father's efforts, but it still made her fret.

After all, whoever—or _whatever_—was lurking was still out and about, uncaught, waiting to wreak havoc. Anyone could be hurt. Anyone could be killed. Anything could—

.

.

—There was the sound of wood, groaning and splintering—too much weight for one bow—above her head.

.

.

She heard it.

Hiyori stilled. The sound of dirt, crunching under her sandals, ceased; and all she could hear was the stillness of the woods, her own breathing, the rapid beat of her heart, and—

—The tree branch, crackling and whining.

Hiyori's breath caught in her throat.

She felt her heart cease to beat, her hands trembling around the knot of her shawl. She recalled the rumors of the killings, and the fear that came that took root in people with it. She felt it in herself, too. It curled and roiled, deep in the pit of her stomach, making her limbs shake and giving her the desire to heave.

But despite it all, she could not bring herself to _run_, or move, or breathe. All she seemed to be able to do was stare—down the path, through the trees, where the brilliant orange light of sunset filtered down into the forest of towering pines.

She prayed to the gods—if any might hear her—for mercy.

"My, my, my," a voice—_male_—drawled out, far above her head, "tell me—what's a little human like you doing in a big forest like this?"

Hiyori nearly choked.

—Then, above her, there was the sound of wood cracking and leaves shaking—Hiyori looked up sharply, though all she could see was a pine tree's bow, swaying. A sprinkling of pine needles fluttered down, landing on her head.

There was the sound of _thump_ in front of her.

Hiyori slowly lowered her gaze, and stared in front of her at a—a—

—A _boy_.

He was, perhaps, a little older than her, wearing a dark kimono that stood out from the pale starkness of his skin. His hair was dark, too, tied up at the back. But, that was not what caught her attention. Instead, it was his eyes, which were a shade of blue that was purer than any she had ever seen before.

"You—" she whispered, throat tight and voice thick, "—You are not a yōkai."

"No," He grinned, revealing white teeth. "Not quite."

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: I'm sort of iffy about this chapter. I know it seems longwinded—but I really wanted to set the backdrop and background, before things kicked in! Hopefull the cliffhanger added some excitement. Look forward to the next chapter, and review to tell me what you think so far! _:)


	2. The Village in the Valley

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami_.

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 02:_

_The Village in the Valley_

.

.

.

.

.

Hiyori stood her ground.

(However, it was—in no way—a show of pride or strength; she was rooted by her fear, by the palpitating of her heart and the throbbing of her lungs. She wished for a rush of adrenaline—a blind shot of bravery that could drive her to run, to attack, to do _anything_ but stand, stare, and wait for the worst which was sure to come.)

The boy–spirit looked at her, raising an arched eyebrow, "To awestricken by my presence to speak?" He offered. There was a bit of cajoling in tone, but Hiyori vaguely wondered if it was like how a cat played with a mouse before it devoured it.

She stared.

Then, slowly, the boy began to circle her, his bare feet crunching over dirt and pine needles—the waste of the forest. He moved around her easily, eyes piercing. (Hiyori felt her hands clench fervently at her sides, her breath catching in her throat.) "You know," he began, "it isn't often that I see someone brave enough to come into a forest near dark—or stupid enough, if it suits you more." Then, he stilled, standing in front of her. He tilted his head to the side, leaning forward, so that he was close, "Ah, by the way," he reached a hand forward, "you wouldn't happen to know where the nearest shrine is, would y—"

—It happened on its own accord.

Hiyori did not know what she truly thought, in that moment. All she knew was fear, head–rushing adrenaline, and the acute desire to have this boy–spirit _nowhere_ near her.

It was more instinct than reason. She lifted her knee, sharply, right into the boy's gut; then, while he was gasping, she put all the effort she could into sweeping her right leg into his own, 'til he toppled over.

—Then, She ran. Without looking back, she bulled forward, legs out–stretched and with all the strength she could muster. Down the path, through the woods and shadows, and the dying light of the day that had faded from orange to crimson.

She ran 'til her legs burned, 'til her lungs ached, 'til sweat dribbled down her brow, 'til she was at her hut, in the village again.

She did not look back.

.

.

.

That night, she went to bed without dinner.

(She was beginning to regret that, though.)

Her stomach rumbled forlornly, and she curled into a tighter ball on her futon, the blankets rustling around her. She bit her lip, debating the level of scolding she would receive if she snuck towards the preserves in the corner. (Surely, a great deal; she had gone to bed before her mother had had the chance to utter a word regarding the woods.)

Hiyori sighed, burying her face in her sheets.

_The woods._ She recalled, with less dizziness—but still with fear—the whole event. The boy—was he even a boy, though? Was _he_ even a 'he'?—with his blue eyes, dark kimono, and pale skin. Now, when she _saw_ it all in her mind, instead of through the lens of the terrified girl she had been, she recalled the discoloration of his hands and arms. They had been mottled a dark purple. And his hands—they had been scarred, too. Scratches that were scabbing over, the skin irritated and red. And his eyes—the skin underneath them was bruised. Tired.

_Was he even an ayakashi at all, then?_ She wondered, silently. Could he have been just a…a boy, lost in the woods? The thought made her guilty—she had hurt him, more than he already had been.

_But, no_, Hiyori shook her head. He had landed—not _fallen_—from a height meters above. A distance that would have killed a mortal; and broken the bones for any who by happenstance _did_ survive the impact.

And then—there was what he had said. "_Not quite."_ Not an ayakashi, but certainly not a man. So, what, then? A spirit of the forest? Hiyori could recall none like _that_. Then, what? Who was he? _What_ was he? And _why_—

"—da, Oda, don't you walk away from me!"

Hiyori stilled.

From outside the hut—in the evening dark—she could hear voices. Her _parents'_ voices.

There was the sound of stomping, then, and she heard the _swish_ of the woven mat being pushed open, her mother and her father entering the hut from the outside.

"Oda!" Her mother's voice was panicked and furious. Hiyori looked at the wall by her futon, and saw the silhouettes cast by her parents on the wall, dark against the glow of the fire cast from the hearth. "Would you _listen_ to _reason_?"

"_This_ is not reason, Chikako," her father raged; Hiyori flinched from her place in her bed—she had never heard him sound so _wrathful_ before. Oda was usually so composed, calming, and complacent. "This is _madness._"

"It is not _madness,_ Oda," her mother said; Hiyori saw the shadow on the wall flicker, as Chikako waved her arms furiously. "It is the only logic that has been employed, as of late!"

"'Logic'?" Oda repeated; he sounded so appalled that it bordered on mockery. "'Logic'? You are pulling hardworking men, bread–earners and supporters from their way of life and pushing them to insanity without cause!" (Hiyori heard the sound of something being thrust down, to the floor—she imagined, from the rustle, that it was the bundles of herbs her father had gone into town for, some hours ago.) "You are sending them on a wild goose–chase!"

"This is no 'goose–chase', Oda; people are _dying!"_ Chikako's voice rose in pitch. "Sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts! They are being _killed_, Oda, they are—"

"—Don't you think I _know_ that?" Hiyori's father's voice was hushed, but he spoke with a rawness and gravity that weighed the air down with his words. "Don't you think I _know_ that, Chikako? I see it every day. I try to save these people, to give them hope and provide them assurance. I try my very hardest."

Hiyori heard the rustle of fabric, and she saw, on the wall, the silhouette of her mother's hand resting upon her father's shoulder. "I know you do," her voice was soft. "But you must see that _we_ are trying, too—trying so you do not have to—"

"—You are doing _nothing_," her father hissed, "but causing a ruckus and stirring the pot. You are building hysteria and neuroticism for no reason." He breathed. "A _guard_. A _guard_, Chikako? To patrol the _village _for _yōkai?_ You are terrifying the people, and making it seem as though they have a _reason_ to be!"

"They do!" her mother snarled. "They have a perfectly good reason, and it is more than waiting like chickens for the slaughter!"

"We are not fowl," Oda hissed. "We are people; we have the ability to act, do not make us seem so helpless!"

"If we have that ability," Chikako breathed, harshly, "why may we not use it? Why must we wait 'til it is too late?"

"Because there is a _time_ and a place for it." Hiyori's father barked. Then, he lowered his voice. "There is a time for action—and now is not it. Now is a time for _reason_ and _logic_; which you are clearly _abandoning_."

"Abandoning? _Abandoning?"_ Chikako's voice rose, its pitch a tremor, and then steadying. "I am _seizing_ the opportunity, Oda, before the cause is at our doorstep! Before blood is shed! Before lives are _lost_! You may save people, Oda, but I am preventing the _need_ of it!"

"There _is_ no need! It's all just hubbub and rumor!"

"No, it is _not_," Chikako huffed. "And you mark my words, Oda—this threat is _real_, it is here, and it is not of man's making. And this beast will not cease its havoc 'til it's razed everything west of the Capital and East of the sea asunder!"

.

.

.

Yato leaned against the tree.

He could feel the jagged bark pressing against his spine—and that wasn't all he could feel. The burning of the Blight—which distorted the skin of his hands, mottling it a dark, bruised color—was nagging at him. (Ayakashi ran rampant, he had soon realized, even this far out of the Capital. And there weren't _nearly_ as many shrines; less chances to cleanse the impurities. But he had to find a temple _somewhere,_ before the Blight spread to the point of immobilizing him.)

He scowled, looking down at his fingers—they were shaking. He gripped them, tightly, 'til they stopped, and his knuckles were pale.

It would have been better, though, if the Blight was the only thing hurting him. His ankles still ached from where the girl had swiped at them with her foot; and _that_ did not compare to the agony that was his abdomen. He hadn't thought that a _human_ of her stature would be capable of _hurting_ someone—let alone a _god_—this badly.

Or of having such _bony_ knees.

Yato sighed, settling down on the branches. The bow groaned but settled eventually, 'til the only thing that disturbed it was the whisk of the breeze that carried through the forest.

He wondered where she had come from—the village, probably, that bordered the woods. But _why_ was she in the forest, then?

He shook his head, then. None of it concerned him—after all, the girl had provided no knowledge, except that approaching humans in the forest was a terrible idea.

Yato let out a sigh, looking up through the canopy of leaves and pine needles—up to the sky, that was a lonesome and bleak, blanketed with stars. He could smell the night, through the thick scent of conifer and earth. (He could feel the Blight devouring him, too, from within to without.)

_Perfect._ He thought, without much relish.

.

.

.

Hiyori had woken that morning with a firm goal. She would forget the previous day's occurrences—from the boy in the forest, to her parents' argument in the evening. (Though, she was still worried—her father had left early, while the sky was just lightening, and her mother refused to speak of their bickering.)

And, now, after chores aplenty, she had managed to escape for lunch—to the only solace she could receive aside from family and solitude.

Friends.

She raced down the fence line, which bordered the rice fields where the men where still at work. Children played in the streets; and though there was weariness about the village, while it was noon and the sun shone, no one minded.

Hiyori darted farther down the lane, which led out of the village and on to the next town; she ran 'til she was distanced from the cluster of huts and the working places. 'Til she was out on the road, with only the forest and the bank on either side.

"—Hey, Hiyori!"

Looking to her side, down the embankment, Hiyori spotted Yama and Ami, sitting in leisure on the matted grass.

"There you are!" Yama called. "Well, come on. We've been waitin' for you!"

Hiyori smiled before walking down the slope of the hill, 'til she was at their sides. She sat down next to Yama, the skirt of her kimono smoothed down underneath her and the grass tickling the backs of her legs.

"Good to see you, _finally,_" Yama snorted.

"How're you?" Ami asked.

Hiyori hesitated, for a moment, and debated whether or not telling them about the boy in the woods—and her parents' argument—was wise. After a moment of deliberation, she decided that, no, it wasn't. "Fine," she said, widening her smile.

"That's all well and good," Yama waved off her comment, "but, guess what? I got a new kimono! It's so pretty, but my mother won't let me wear it…" Then, Yama went on to rant about how unfair it was. Hiyori laughed, while Ami rolled her eyes, and she thought of how wonderful it was—normalcy.

"Maybe I should go to the shrine and pray for luck," Yama finished, griping.

Hiyori laughed.

A few moments of silence settled, then. 'Til, of course: "What'd'you think," Ami ventured. She bit her lip. "'bout the killings." Her dark hair swayed in the breeze, brushing over her shoulders and the faded fabric of her kimono.

"Those?" Yama replied, idly. She was now lying on the grass, the skirt of her kimono hiked up to her knees, her hands tucked behind her head. "Just some rumors, is all. Probably bandits."

Hiyori sat quietly, listening. She held her breath.

"That's a lot of talk, just for bandits," Ami said, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins. "The elders are frightened, too." She murmured into the fabric of her skirt.

"Those geezers get frightened if a chicken looks at them the wrong way." Yama scoffed. "'Omens' this, 'omens' that—I swear, they think every rock in the road is a sign of the gods!" She cackled.

"You shouldn't mock them—or the gods." Ami warned, her lips pursed. "I even heard that there's talk of building a sort of patrol to keep watch in the village."

"Oh, I bet." Yama snorted.

"It's true!" Ami insisted. She looked over, at Hiyori. "You've heard about it, too, haven't you?"

Hiyori swallowed. She felt a bit guilty, but, "no," she said. "I haven't." Then, she added: "sorry," and meant it.

Ami looked down at her knees, quiet.

"Oh, Ami, I'm just having my fun," Yama said, reaching a hand over to pat their friend on her shoulder. "It's nothing to fret over, anyway. You're not worried 'bout it, are you, Hiyori?" She turned her head to look at her friend.

Hiyori managed a smile and, again, felt a twinge of guilt in her gut. "No." She said.

"See?" Yama said, turning to Ami. "Nothing to worry 'bout. 'sides," she teased, "you're so blind, Ami-cchi, that even if you did meet something, you wouldn't be able to see it enough to be scared of it!" She laughed.

"H—Hey!" Ami protested, leaning to her side to swat Yama's knee. "No fair!"

They all laughed, then, and Hiyori was grateful for it.

.

.

.

Yato let out a sigh.

He'd managed, by some dumbfounded _luck_, to find a stream in this gods–forsaken forest. It wasn't pure—at least, not in the way he needed—but it was enough to clean the scratches and scrapes he'd gotten, (he supposed that brambles were a bitch no matter what part of the country you were in), and the pinesap stuck to his hair and clothes, (he reminded himself why he _very_ much hated spring).

Still, the water was frigid; so he hurried up as he tied his robe back together, pulling his hair up, too.

Then, he looked up—the sky was very blue, and the whole forest seemed to have come alive; birds and the breeze and all that—and smiled.

He'd managed to find—or rather, _hear about_—a shrine, just on the outskirts of the village the girl had been from. It would be perfect—he would be able to purify his Blight, steal a quick meal and some clothes; and maybe give a little pay back for the knee to the gut he'd suffered, along with his wounded pride as a god and a warrior.

Yato's smile widened to a grin. _Today, thank Fukurokuju, is going to be a good one._

.

.

.

"Make sure you hang those properly—I don't need them falling and getting dirty again!"

Hiyori let out a lengthy sigh. She had managed to find some small reprieve from work and worry during noontime—however, once she had returned home in the later hours of the afternoon, she had been less lucky. Her mother, in her constantly frenzied state, was insistant upon cleaning their home. (Hiyori knew why, though, and that was why she had not protested—Chikako always cleaned when she worried; which was often.)

That, of course, meant laundry.

Biting her lip, Hiyori stood on her tip–toes, pinning the worn, sopping kimono on the clothesline. Her mother stood a few paces to her left, pinning up another piece of clothing. Hiyori cast a worried glance in her direction; Chikako had been upset all afternoon, despite all she did to hide it. _I hope everything will return to normal, soon…_

"Focus on your work, and less on me," Chikako ordered, sharply, tacking a kimono to the line.

Hiyori pursed her lips.

Longer moments passed, filled with silence and chores, 'til all the laundry was hung. Of course, though, Chikako still had much work to be done. "Go get dinner started," she ordered her daughter, "I'll get some water from the well."

It was nearing mealtime, Hiyori noted, looking at the darkening sky. Then, she nodded, trudging back into the house. She went to the corner, where the preserves were kept—including her father's packets of herbs and dried foodstuffs. (Hunting season had yet to come to its peak time, and so far from the ocean, seawater fish and other creatures were difficult to come by. So, there meals were primarily based on what they could gather and farm.)

She was busying herself separating piles of herbs, fruits, and vegetables when she heard it—

—A crash, followed by the sound of sloshing water. _"Oda!"_ Her mother yelped.

Hiyori stood abruptly, rushing to the door. "Mother…!" She called, pushing the mat out of her way. Then, she stilled.

Her mother had dropped the bucket of water from the well—and the liquid sloshed and spread across the path to their home—in her haste to reach Hiyori's father, who stood in the path. He looked pale and shaken, and Hiyori's eyes widened as she saw what coated his hands, his kimono.

_Blood._ She realized, faintly.

"Oda!" Her mother cried, again. Then, she began pulling him towards the house, "get inside, get inside," she tittered, leading him to the door.

Hiyori stumbled back, allowing her parents to enter the hut. Chikako sat Oda by the empty hearth, and he did not resist. He merely slumped and stared with all the will of one who was lifeless.

"Hiyori!" Chikako called, sharply; her voice was wavering.

Looking over at her, Hiyori nodded, blearily, feeling shaken.

"Go get water." Her mother ordered.

Glancing at her father worriedly, Hiyori began, "But—"

"—_Now!"_ Chikako barked. Looking at her, Hiyori saw how pale her hands were, and how she was fisting them to keep them from trembling.

She nodded, "yes," and turned to the doorway.

"—From the stream, Hiyori," her mother added, belatedly.

Hiyori did not bother answering, and darted out of the hut; she picked up the pail that lay in the path, then, she ran down the side of their home. (The stream was behind the house, coming from the mountains to the forest, 'til it drained into the rice fields.)

She ignored the dark of evening and the quivering of her gut, and then she was met with the slight embankment that led to the stream. She stumbled down it and then plunged into the brooklet, ignoring the shock of cold water that went to her mid–shin, soaking the hem of her kimono.

Then, Hiyori shoved the bucket under the water's surface, waited 'til it was full, and darted back out of the stream. She stumbled up the embankment, ignoring the burning of her arms, the prickling of her legs, and the way the water sloshed out of the pail, and darted down the length of the hut.

She rounded the corner and burst through the doorway. "I've—I've got it—!" She panted, teetering over to the hearth—which was now lit, she realized, belatedly—where her mother and father sat.

"Good, good," Chikako breathed, "bring it over here, now."

Hiyori did as she was asked, setting the pail down. Then, she stumbled back, kneeling down on her shivering legs and sopping kimono. She watched her parents, anxiously.

Chikako went to work quickly; she pulled out a bit of ragged cloth, dipped it in the bucket, and the dabbed and scrubbed at Oda's arms and hands, which were coated in caked blood. Every time she plunged the cloth back into the pail, Hiyori noticed, numbly, the water turned a deeper shade of red.

"You don't have to be so rough, Chikako," her father murmured, his eyes downcast. "The blood—it isn't even mine."

Hiyori's mother stilled. "Then whose is it?" She looked up, eyes asking something—a specific question.

Oda swallowed, looking as though he was stomaching a great pain, bearing a great burden. "There—There's been another attack," her father managed, his face ashen. Then, he cast sorrowful eyes upon his daughter, and Hiyori felt her heart cease its beating. "It was Yama."

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: Told ya thinks would kick in! (Sorry it's a _little_ late; but it's twice the size of the last chapter, so, rejoice!) Anyways, thank you to everyone who's shown their support by reviewing, favoriting, following, and just reading this story. It means a lot to me to know that people like it, and are taking the time to tell me they do, too._


	3. The Boy in the Woods

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami._

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 03:_

_The Boy in the Woods_

.

.

.

.

.

Yato's fingers trembled around the shaft of the arrow—the one that was imbedded into his shoulder blade, sticking out of his back like a porcupine quill. It hadn't gotten very far—the point was dull, the wood splintered and crooked, and he chalked it up to good fortune that the shoddy marksman had managed to plug it in between his ribs.

But, _gods,_ it hurt.

He felt the palms of his hands, gleaming with sweat and blood and grime, his fingers shaking—looking pale and slick, even in the dark of the forest. Yato's gaze traveled up his arm, and he saw through the tears in his kimono the odd bruised–color of his skin.

The Blight was spreading. Another day or two, and it would go beyond the kind of impurity that one could cleanse—it would take root in the marrow of his bones, the cells of his blood, the pores of his skin. It would imbed itself in his soul, burn him from within to without, 'til there was not a trace of divinity left.

(And all because of that shrine—that gods–damned shrine, one of the sparse few in this gods–forsaken countryside. If he had only—if he had _only_—)

He bit his lip. _One crisis at a time,_ and then though, with less relish: _It's gotta come out_.

Yato wrapped his fingers around the base of the arrow—he prayed to himself that it would hold together; at least until it was out of his shoulder—

—He _pulled_—

.

.

A scream echoed through the forest.

.

.

Hiyori pressed her face against the coarse material of her blankets.

She felt furious tears burn in her eyes, turning the fabric soggy. She drew in a breath, and when it caught, she let it out in a sob.

_"It was Yama," _her father had said, with such sadness and guilt. _"By the shrine—with Ami. They were praying when it came—Ami hid, but Yama…"_ He had sucked in a raking breath. _"Yama wasn't quick enough."_

Again, Hiyori let out a rough sob, gripping her sheets in her hands. It seemed so inconceivable—it was, it had to be. Now, Yama was on her deathbed, teetering between life and demise. Yet, hours ago, she and her friends had sat on the bank, talking about kimonos, and Yama had said that—

—She wished to go to the shrine.

_"Maybe I should go to the shrine and pray for good luck."_ She had laughed.

Hiyori paused, opening her bleary, sore eyes to look at her bedding. _The shrine._ She had heard of it before—and not just from Yama. But where? Where—?

_"Ah, by the way, you wouldn't happen to know where the nearest shrine is, would you?"_

She stared at her covers.

_Of course._ The boy in the woods. The one who had moved with such ease—the one who had had that predatory gaze when he had circled her, like the wounded animal he very much was. The one who made her blood still and chill within her veins.

The one who had been looking for the shrine.

"Hiyori…?"

She turned her head sharply, looking over her shoulder at her mother who stood in the doorway—the bright sheen of morning light slipped through the gap between mat, screen, and perosn, blurring Chikako's image; but her voice was worried. "Are you alright?" she questioned.

Hiyori opened her mouth; then, she swallowed, licked her lips, and managed a trembling smile. "Better." She lied. "But is Yama—?"

"Your father is still with her." Chikako admitted, walking into the hut—the mat swished closed behind her, the room dimming. "And no word has been sent on her condition. Just rumors, is all." She moved to Hiyori's bedside, kneeling down; then, she reached a hand out, cupping Hiyori's cheek. "But I'm sure she'll be alright." However, there was tightness to her voice and tenseness to her shoulders, and the lines around Chikako's eyes pulled with worry.

Hiyori nodded, though she did not believe it anymore than her mother did. "Thank you." She whispered, fisting her blankets in her hands.

Chikako bit her lip, nodded, then asked, "Are you hungry?"

"N—No." Hiyori said. "I don't think I could…" she swallowed. "How's Ami?"

"She's still unconscious." Chikako said. "But she was given such a fright, Hiyori—it may be a while before she wakes up."

Hiyori nodded. _Of course. _It was a ridiculous question—but then again, it all seemed so _ludicrous_. That one moment, everything was so normal and plain, and the next, it was _different_ and _wrong_ and—

She looked up hesitantly, at Chikako, "Mother," she whispered, "is—is everything going to be alright?" She bit her lip.

Chikako's eyes seemed to glisten for a bit, 'til she pitched forward and wrapped her arms around her. "Yes." She whispered, patting down Hiyori's hair. "Yes, it will. I promise. I promise. I promise nothing else like this will ever happen again." She told her daughter, fervently.

Hiyori pressed her face into her mother's shoulder, wrapping her arms around her, too; and thought, with as much conviction as she could muster: _No. It won't._

.

.

.

Hiyori trudged up the path, bundle tucked firmly underneath her arm.

She had decided that she would not shed another tear—at least, not in the dimness of her home, with her mother's quiet sympathies assaulting her. Not while Yama was lying prone in her bedding, bleeding from wounds that would scar—if they ever healed at all. Not while Ami was inert in her futon, suffering from terror and fear, the sorts of things that Hiyori could not fathom.

And when she had decided this—decreed it—her mother had come to a resolution as well. That, if her daughter was well enough to be up and about, she was well enough to deliver goods.

_"To Ami's family,"_ Chikako had said, hand pressed to her cheek with worry. _"Hatō and Mizuki must be so distraught."_

Hiyori had agreed with her mother; but as she climbed the hill to Ami's humble home, she could not help the quiver of trepidation in her gut. _What if they do not want to see me? What if they are angry? What if they blame me? What if—_

_—But, no. _She shook her head, hardening her gaze and straightening her shoulders. _It's the least I can do._ And she walked faster up the slope of the hill.

When she reached the doorway, she bit her lip. Then, she knocked—once, twice…

The mat was pushed aside, revealing—

"—Hatō." Hiyori blinked, looking up at the haggard and worn face of Ami's father. "It—I—" she swallowed, then pulled the package out from underneath her arm, holding it out. "—This is for you. And your wife. From my parents." She clarified.

Hatō blinked, face blank as though it had been decades since he had seen another person, let alone spoke wit them. "I— Thank you, Hiyori," he managed, taking the parcel from her. He looked down. "You— Your family has been a gift from the gods, I swear it," he murmured, bowing deeply.

"I— no," Hiyori managed, "that—that isn't necessary—"

"—I mean it," Hatō said with conviction, looking up. "Without your father— Ami—" He swallowed, then averted his gaze.

"Ami," Hiyori breathed, folding her hands in front of her. "How—How is she?" She bit her lip.

"She—" Hatō's blank look dissolved briefly, and a flash of agonizing pain shown through the cracks of his façade. The look of a father, watching his daughter suffer, unable to help. "She is still not awake." He said. "Though, you— You could see her, if you wished to." He looked at Hiyori tentatively.

_Should I?_ She wondered if it was her place, her right. _But Ami…_ She wanted to see her—to see her friend. "Yes, Hatō," Hiyori managed, "I would like to."

Hatō nodded, "come in," and held the mat open for her.

Hiyori walked into their home, and in the dimness she saw the small room—the little hearth, the piles of preserves and herbs, and the futons in the corner.

_Ami_ on a futon, in the corner.

"My wife is out," Hatō clarified, setting the parcel down by the wall. "But she should be back soon—in the meantime, would you like some tea, or some rice, or—?"

"—It's fine, Hatō," Hiyori assured, looking over her shoulder and forcing a smile. "I—I should be going shortly, anyhow. I have something…that I need to do, later." With that said, she crossed the room, before she reached Ami's bedside.

She looked so _pale_—and though it had only been a few hours since the attack, the skin underneath her eyes was dark and bruised. Her hair looked wispy, her skin seeming to hang on her bones, draped thinly.

Hiyori bit her lip, and pushed back the sting in her eyes. Then, taking one of Ami's hands—they were small, cold—she gripped it in her own.

"I promise," she whispered, devoutly, "I promise I will find who did this. For you, for Yama. I _promise_." Then, the sting in her eyes turned into a steady burn, and she wiped furiously at them with the back of her hand. She set Ami's own down softly on her bedding.

Hatō, all the while, had been standing in the corner, watching the occurrence with a quiet and forlorn gaze. Hiyori turned to him, her smiling trembling. "Thank you for letting me see her, Hatō," she said, adding: "I should go."

"All right…" Hatō said, watching her as she headed to the doorway. "Thank you for coming, Hiyori."

Hiyori nodded, bowing once, and glancing back only at Ami, lying still and unresponsive on her futon.

She turned and left.

.

.

.

Yato leaned against the pine tree's trunk.

He could not tell what time of day it was—through the spiny branches of the pines, seemingly _so_ far above, he could see nothing but swaths of gray–white sky. His lip curled in distaste.

(He supposed that he could climb to the branches; but, then, with all the blood loss, he might fall, and—)

—Well, a puncture wound was one thing; a broken neck was quite another. And fatal.

He snarled, leaning back against the tree—he could feel the moist earth underneath his bare feet, the rough bark against his back, and the aching throb of the bloody hole in his shoulder blade. More than that, he could feel his blood, caked dry, hard, and black against his skin, his kimono. It crossed his mind, too, that he was _still_ bleeding—there was no clotting, no scabbing. Yato knew that this should disconcert him; but he was even more disconcerted by the fact that he, well, _wasn't_.

_I'm going to die,_ he thought, without much grief, _and—_

—There was a _snap_; the sound of someone stepping on a branch and it breaking under the weight and pressure.

Yato stilled; he felt his muscles tense, and the ache in his shoulder intensified tenfold. _"Damn_ it," he swore. Then, looking blindly around, he declared: "If you're going to come out, you might as well do it now—I can _hear_ you."

There was the sound of leaves and dirt crunching underfoot; and then, in his bleary line of sight, there was a figure.

A _girl._

_The_ girl—the one who had sent him sprawling. She looked much the same—then again, it had only been a day or two—though her previous look of fear was replaced with one of determination; one of _fury_.

_Perfect_. Yato thought, dourly; because he knew from experience that hell hath no wrath like a woman enraged. "Why, it's you—!" he replied, voice sounding strained and slurred, despite his attempts at facetiousness. "What a coincidence, meeting one little girl in such a big forest."

She looked at him, furiously. Her eyes were pink—_so odd_, he thought—and narrowed. "How _dare_ you," she breathed.

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: This chapter is _so_ late. I'm sorry—really, really sorry. But updating'll be back on track this Thursday, so, look forward to chapter four _then_._

_On a brighter note, some more development in this chapter—not only that Yama is _alive_, but Yato is also in trouble, and Hiyori's none to pleased about the former. I was pleased with her character in this chapter, because of two things in particular: one, I find in most stories—fanfiction or not—that female characters are criticized for showing emotions through crying, (which I think is ridiculous), so, I wanted to showcase that Hiyori, besides being strong in her own right, has her moments of _weakness_. Two, in plenty of romance stories, the main characters seem to be the _only_ characters; i.e., family and friends are sometimes considered negligible. This has always bothered me, because parents and friends have such a profound influence on a person's life—negative or positive—that I feel like they should have important parts in their children's / friends' stories. Hence, why Hiyori's mother and father, as well as Yama and Ami, play central roles in this story._

_...Sorry for the rambling, (and the late update)._

_(Review?)_


	4. The Girl at the Shrine

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami._

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 04:_

_The Girl at the Shrine_

.

.

.

.

.

"How _dare_ you," she breathed.

Yato looked at her from the bleary, darkening edges of his vision. He could feel the gaping wound in his shoulder ache and throb, feel the plaster of caked blood against his skin, his kimono. He gritted his teeth, felt bone grind against bone. "'How dare I' what?" he said, managing to sound passably facetious. "Be so charmingly witty? It's difficult, I know, but—"

"—You—You—You _monster_," she stalked forward, hands clenched at her sides so tightly that they were shaking, the knuckles white. "How _dare_ you—How dare _you_—"

"—You already said that." Yato pointed out, and he closed his eyes. He could feel his strength, as well as his _patience_, wearing thin. Yato forced his body to compliance, then, and stood. He leaned against the tree—stooped, he was only a few centimeters shorter than her. "Listen, little girl," he said, and his voice sounded slurred and forced to his own ears—the ire in it, though, was genuine. "I don't know why you're here—I don't care. But I'm in no mood to deal with children."

.

.

—Then, there was a jarring _crack_, and Yato felt himself tumble over.

.

.

He hit the forest floor sprawling, twigs and pine needles digging into his skin, dirt smearing over his palms, and the woods seemed to spin, twirl, and smear like running ink. He looked dizzily over his shoulder and saw the girl, standing over him, looking quite surprised, her hand still outstretched.

_She had hit him._

Yato pressed a hand to his cheek, which was throbbing and sore—his shoulder felt like someone had wrenched it loose from its socket. "You—You—" She had hit him—not a slap, not a kick or a swipe; she had fisted her hand and _hit_ him.

Well.

The girl blinked, then took a step back. "I—I—" Then, she swallowed. "—It's nothing, compared to what _you've_ done." And a bit of the fury came back into her eyes and her voice.

Yato, still lying on the ground, propped his torso up on his elbows, still rubbing at his cheek—it would be bruised and swollen by tomorrow, no doubt. "You're probably right." He decided, his voice rough. "But, do you mind specifying? I've done so many terrible things." And he didn't even know if he _was_ joking or not.

Evidently, neither did she. The girl looked at him, uncertain and unsure, but she furrowed her brow and said: "The shrine."

"The shrine?" Yato repeated, numbly; then: "You mean the one where I got this?" And he reached back, brushing his fingers over the hardened surface of his kimono, plastered to his shoulder.

She looked at him, at his wound, and the wrath in her voice grew: "You were there."

"Yes." Yato admitted, and turned over, sitting. Then, he looked up, at the girl—she was standing frighteningly still, her head bowed down.

"You attacked them." She whispered.

Yato paused, blinked. "Attacked?" He shook his head, "Uh, no—if the hole in my back wasn't indication enough, _I_ was the one being attacked."

She looked up sharply. "You?" She breathed. "Attacked? _You_ were the one who was attacked?"

"Yes." Yato said, testily. "I went to the shrine, and there was some commotion, and—well," he jerked a hand towards his shoulder. "All I know is that you humans seem to fire first and question later." He rubbed his cheek, which was sore. "_Much_ later."

She blinked. "But, no— There— You were _there._ It had to be you." She finished, determinedly. "You—You're _lying_."

"No, I am _not_." Yato countered, shifting. "And I— I don't even know what you're _accusing_ me of."

"You _attacked_ my _friends,_" the girl burst out with a cry. She pointed an accusing finger at him, "you—you nearly _killed _them, you—"

"—_I_ didn't do _anything_." Yato snapped, glaring up at her. He would have stood, but he felt tiredness beginning to creep over him. The Blight burned and itched against his arms, and his wound _ached_ with a fierceness that surprised him. "I was going to the shrine for—" He pursed his lips.

"—For what?" The girl demanded. "To attack people, like you've been _all_ over the countryside—"

"—I haven't attacked anyone!" Yato burst. "I went to the shrine to _purify_ my _Blight_ with the water there."

"You—" The girl blinked. "W—Wait—_Blight?"_

Yato curled his lip in distaste; then, he ripped up his sleeve, raising his arm to show the discolored splotches of bruised skin to her. "_Blight_. Impurity. Deadly to gods."

The girl stared at his arm, then at him, and then at the Blight. Her eyes were wide, and she looked him in the eyes. "Blight—? …_Gods…?_ You—" She breathed. "—You can't be—"

"—A _god_." Yato said, imperiously. "Divine. Holy. Sacrosanct. Pure. _All–powerful._"

"No," she shook her head, "no, no—you can't be— You're just—"

"—Be careful—" Yato advised, gravely. Then, he called up a spurt of power—

.

.

—And he was behind her. "—of how you finish that." He added, whispering into her ear.

The girl let out a yelp, stumbling forward and whirling around. "How—_How _did you?!"

Yato tapped his temple. His head throbbed, and he felt dizzied and off–center. _I overdid it, _he thought with a grimace, and he felt himself sway on his feet. The treetops above him seemed to swirl. He blinked. "God, remember?" He said, gritting his teeth.

She looked at him, eyes wide and fearful. "But, no…" She said. "You're a—a…"

"God." Yato finished.

"Then, the shrine…?" She shook her head. "You were still at the shrine. You still—"

"—I didn't attack anyone." Yato repeated, blinking. "I didn't _kill_ anyone." He stumbled back slightly as the world began to turn. "I—I didn't—" Then, the world began to distort itself—the trees twisting to shades of shadows and the night, the very feel of the earth underneath his feet distorted 'til there it was nothing at all.

.

.

.

Hiyori stared.

He had just—_collapsed_.

She bit her lip; what was she to do? She could bring him to the village, but… That was a ways away, and she was sure that she would have to carry him. And his illness… _Blight_, he had called it—she could see the splotches of it marring his skin, spreading. Then, there was the wound in his shoulder—

—And… Did she even _want_ to save him?

Yama had almost died—could still. Ami had not woken, yet. The village was in turmoil, as countless others were in the aftermath of the slaughters. And if this boy _had_ done it—this god, this ayakashi, whatever he was… Was saving him forsaking the rest of the towns?

Still… _I didn't attack anyone,_ he had said, with such conviction. _I didn't kill anyone_. And his illness, his _Blight_—he had had it before, too, that night in the woods. He had seemed so weakened; could he have managed to chase after Ami and Yama?

_I don't know what you're even accusing me of._

_I didn't _do_ anything._

Could she believe him?

Could she _leave_ him?

And…what if she didn't?

.

.

.

The hike to the shrine, from the forest, was about two kilometers. It took her twenty good minutes of traipsing through the underbrush and shrubbery to near the wooded hill where the temple sat. By the time she was climbing its slopes, her thighs burned, as did her lungs, and her feet throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

Hiyori pursed her lips, looking up at the sky—it was nearing nightfall. She had to hurry.

She still did not know if trusting him was the best decision—but no, she didn't trust him. But she couldn't… She couldn't _leave_ him, lying and dying in the woods. If she had, she didn't think she would have been able to face her father again—her father, who would help anyone who needed it. Her father, who did not believe in forsaking whatever life there was.

But, by saving him—that boy—could she bear to look Ami or Yama in the eyes, if he _was_ responsible for the attacks?

Hiyori shook her head. _Not now,_ she told herself. _Later_. She reached the height of the hill and through the thinning trees saw the modest, weathered wood of the shrine. She paused, listening—could hear nothing but the birds and the wind—and then crept forward.

Hiyori pushed through the brush and shrubs before stepping out into the open—a worn path stamping out the grass around the modest shrine. She looked around, made sure no one was near, and then darted around the shrine, to the well on the other side.

_Water,_ he had said. _I went to the shrine to purify my Blight with the water there_.

"This'll be it," Hiyori decided, and she leaned over the edge of the well, looking down. Dark. Then, she bit her lip and reached for the bucket lying next to it, rope attached. She gripped the rough cord in her hand and then cast the bucket down the well. She felt it hurtle for a few meters before landing with a _splosh_, filling with water. Hiyori gripped the rope, pursed her lips, and began to pull it up.

Her arms burned by the time the pale had resurfaced and she set it on the ground with aching muscles. Hiyori untied the rope and then pulled it up to her chest. _I'll bring it back,_ she promised to herself, resolutely.

Then, she set off—back around the shrine, back towards the woods. She firmly ignored the ache in her arms—and the thought that this was a _terrible _idea—and traipsed into the brush.

.

.

.

When she stumbled upon him at last, after twenty–minutes of stumbling through the forest, she was relieved. He had not fled, had not moved—had not even awakened. Hiyori set the bucket down, water sloshing over the brim, and knelt a meter away from him. She let her breathing calm, though her heart still raced, and then rolled up the sleeves of her kimono.

She was unsure of how one might clean _Blight_—he had said _water_, but he had not mentioned how he might use it. Drink it? Wash with it? Hiyori pursed her lips; then, she stood, dragging the bucket over to him. Hesitantly, like one might prod a sleeping dog, she poked him with her foot.

He didn't stir.

Swallowing, she knelt. Her father cleaned wounds by scrubbing them—though, this was unlike any other ailment she had seen, Hiyori decided that the familiar was the best course of action.

She gripped the hem of her kimono and tentatively tugged, wincing when she heard the fabric tear. She looked at the scrap of cloth and cringed, imaging her mother's wrath when she returned—late, clothes ruined.

Hiyori then dipped the cloth into the water and leaned forward; she looked at the boy's forearm, where the Blight was, perhaps, at its worst. Then, she rubbed the strip of fabric against his skin and stilled, watching in amazement as the illness began to dissolve, as though it had never been at all.

Determined, she pursed her lips and began to scrub his arms—then, his neck. She hesitated, realizing that the only way to see his back—its Blight, and the wound on his shoulder—was to remove his kimono.

Hiyori bit her lip.

"—_What're_…What're y'doin'?"

Hiyori let out a yelp, scrambling backwards; the boy opened a sluggish eye, looking at her irritably.

"I—you—I—" Hiyori swallowed, holding the cloth tightly in her hand. "You were—the _Blight_—you said you needed the shrine water, and I—I got it. I was—cleansing it, I think."

The boy let out a grunt, sat up, and looked at his forearms. Then, he clapped a hand to the back of his neck. He blinked. "I… You did." He said, dumbfounded. He peered at her. "Why, though?"

"Why?" Hiyori repeated. She blinked. "I— You were…you were ill. I couldn't just…leave you." _Though, perhaps I _should_ have._ She thought.

"You could—but you didn't. Why?" The boy pressed.

Hiyori swallowed. "I don't— I couldn't just leave, knowing that you were going to die. That would be—_wrong_." _It would have been._ She told herself, determinedly.

The boy looked at her roughly and then let out a guffaw. "You're odd." He said. Then: "…Does this mean you believe me?" There was a vulnerability to his voice, a reluctance.

"I—" Hiyori looked down. "—I don't know." She swallowed.

"If you did, you would have left me," the boy argued, resolutely. "Anyone else would have left me—or killed me."

"I wouldn't—" Hiyori shook her head. "—Leaving someone to die is wrong; killing them is worse. You— I don't know _what_ you did, but it wouldn't— That wouldn't justify doing it back to you." Then, she crawled to her knees. She leaned forward, holding out the cloth to him. "Here." She said. "You— For your _Blight_."

The boy looked at her and then at the cloth—then, at her. He took it from her tentatively. "Thank you." He said, finally, slowly.

Hiyori nodded.

He held the cloth for a moment, looking at it.

"What—What's your name?" Hiyori burst, suddenly.

The boy looked at her, surprised. His eyes were wide, and she was struck again by how _blue_ they were. It was only after another moment had passed that he spoke:

"I'm Yato-gami."

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: Sorry it's late! To make up for it, though, stuff actually happens! Plot development! Character development! (Could it be?)_

_For those of you who might find Hiyori's actions __questionable—why would she help someone she thought attacked her friends?—I want to emphasize something: Hiyori does not trust Yato. At the same time, she is not sure if she believes him or not. Also, Hiyori is a _good_ person at heart; she will not leave someone to die, no matter how untrustworthy they seem. Yato is no exception. I wanted to illustrate this in this chapter._

_Reviews?_


	5. The Gift in the House

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami._

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 05:_

_The Gift in the House_

.

.

.

.

.

Hiyori swiped a hand across her forehead. It came back glistening with sweat—she grimaced and wiped it off on the rough fabric of her kimono. (Her mother had been terribly unforgiving when she had come home, dirtied and with clothes torn; there would be no new clothes—she would have to sew them up on her own. Hiyori didn't mind that so much as she had minded the nagging she had gotten.)

Biting her lip, she ground the stone into the dried leaves on the board below her—they crinkled and split apart 'til they were a gritty–looking powder. She did again 'til it was as smooth as dust and had a bout as much substance. She brushed her hand across the board, sweeping the powder into the jar at its edge. Then, she put the cork—made of swollen, old wood—over its hole, capping it.

"Done." She said to herself. She picked the jar up, brought it to the shelf in the corner, and set it next to the dozens of others like it; all of which she had dealt with in the past hour or so. (Oda did not always have enough time to grind the herbs he administered and Hiyori was content to help when she could—besides, it kept her mind away from—)

—_No._ She told herself, firmly. _Don't think about it._ (_Him_.)

Two days had past since their encounter in the forest, her and the boy—the Yato god; the murderer?—and she had set out with all good intentions to shelve it within her mind, like she had all of her fathers medicines. What good would it do, to dwell on the past? How might it help her, when Ami and Yama were still lying prostrate in their cots, their parents crowded around them? _It wouldn't. _Hiyori told herself.

_But, what if it did?_

Hiyori pursed her lips, wiping her hands on the hem of her kimono. She didn't know, still, if what the Yato god had said was true—that he was an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. She doubted it, and that very sentiment lay nagging in the back of her mind, like poison ivy—festering and itching. He _had_ been honest, though, about his injuries—about the Blight that had been laying waste to his body and soul. If he had been telling the truth about that, then, could he have been telling the truth about himself, too? (Still, she had never even _heard_ of the Yato god.)

She swallowed. _I don't know._

He _had_ been injured, that was true—not just from the Blight, but from the gash in his shoulder, (_from an arrow_, he had said). The wound had had yet to heal, when she had last seen it… It could lead to infection, without treatment—and he had been worse for the wear to begin with…

_What am I thinking?_ Hiyori wondered; though, she already knew what as she eyed one of her father's jars sitting on the shelf—a mixture of calendula and chamomile. She swallowed, then grabbed the jar quickly, ignoring the feeling that she was doing something wrong and unjust.

(_What if he's the one? _She thought, and remembered Ami's gaunt pallor—her father returning home, face sallow, caked in her dear friend's blood.)

_But what if he's not?_ She countered, and then: _I can't leave him to die._ (That would make her no better than him, if he _was_ the killer; still, she tried not to dwell on that.)

But she felt unsure—a queasy feeling deep in the pit of her unsettled gut—even as she marched out the door, the mat swinging behind her.

.

.

.

Hiyori forewent the path through the village to the forest, choosing instead to avoid the prying eyes of her fellow townspeople by heading through the woods by the route behind her house. It was midday, the sun high, and she knew the path well enough that she sure that she would not get lost. It would also be better to avoid her neighbors, in the rare even that they might tell her mother they had seen her passing by, and upon hearing this Chikako's wrath would be supreme and devastating.

It was this slight worry, Hiyori convinced herself, that had her fingers trembling ever–so–slightly around the jar clasped in her hands; her stomach tightened to knots so much that she felt ill.

Still, she pressed on through the brush, the trees towering over her, sunlight slipping through the breaks in the thick branches of needles. It looked, Hiyori thought, so much friendlier than it had before, on that fateful day, (she took this as a good omen, like the kind the elders spoke of).

At this thought, she recalled the way she had seen the Yato god—bedraggled and wounded, perhaps desperate. He had been no better the second time. And, on both occasions, she had managed to knock him to his feet.

Hiyori blinked when she felt a tug of guilt in the pit of her stomach.

_Why do I feel like I did something wrong?_ She questioned herself. _He could be a killer—he could be the one who attacked Yama and Ami._ She argued. _But he could _not_ be. He could be innocent._

_He could _be_ anyone._ She thought, and then decided, belatedly, that that was the only thing she knew about this forest–dwelling boy.

It was with that that she stumbled upon said god–child's home. ('Home', though, was such a loose term—it was a tree, and she only knew it to be his because it was the tallest tree in the forest, gnarled and gargantuan even among its colossal brethren.)

She swallowed, and looked about—there was not a trace of him. She opened her mouth, prepared to call out, but closed it, then—did she want to see him, to approach him, to hand him this offering of sorts?

But still—where _was_ he?

As Hiyori craned her head to look up, high into the branches of the pine, a thought struck her—

Had he— Had he _left?_

She paled. _Could he? _And then: _of course. After all, what was making him stay?_ And if he _had_ left, did that make him guilty? Criminals fled the scene—that was obvious, logical. So— So— She shook her head. _No, no._ It— It could not be true. If it had, then she would have been as good as him—she would have helped the attacker, a murderer.

Hiyori swallowed. _Just—calm down—_ She looked at the jar in her hands—suddenly, it felt like a bundle of metal and mud, disgusting and sticking to her, weighing her down. She wanted to be rid of it. She wanted to be rid of all of it.

With all the strength she could muster, Hiyori hurled the jar as far as she could, did not see—or care—where it landed, just relished in the sound it made as it hit the ground with a _thud_.

Then, she turned hard on her heels and raced away from it—from the tree, from the forest. From all of it.

(She ignored the burning in her eyes—told herself that it was nothing at all.)

.

.

.

Yato rubbed at the back of neck. (He could still feel the faintest remnants of the Blight, nagging at his skin, his being.)

He pursed his lips, trudging across the forest floor—he could feel the pine needles sifting underneath his toes, with dirt and grit; more than that, though, he could feel the pronounced ache in his shoulder. The muscles that were layered and corded over his back felt tight and pinched, bunched up. Though the fierce agony of the fresh cut had faded, there was still a worrisome amount of pain.

He wondered, belatedly, if he had contracted an infection.

_Perfect._ He thought, with a grimace. _How fortunate._ Yato reached a hand back, brushing the fabric of his kimono, where the wound laid throbbing underneath. He had washed the kimono in the stream a day or so ago, so it was no longer sopping wet, but still damp. He chocked it up to the cold nights.

Then, he ran a hand through his hair, which was still dribbling water, wetting the fabric clothing his shoulders, making an altogether unpleasant experience. (Not that it had been anything but before—bathing in the creek was never lovely, especially in springtime, when the mountain's snow melted to near–freezing water so cold it made your toes numb and your fingers tremble.)

Yato was sure of one thing—and that was that he would be content to go back to his tree, and sleep the day and night away, 'til tomorrow was hopefully more bearable.

He trudged up to the pine, was about to jump to his branch—as it had been designated—

—But something caught his eye.

Yato stilled, looking over to his far right, where the sunlight broke through the branches, down upon the ground. And that light caught upon something, making it shine dully.

He walked over and looked down at a jar. It was lying on its side, but the cork that capped it was still present, the contents untouched. Yato reached down, picked the container up, and tilted his head as he looked at it. _How in Hotei's name…?_

—_Wait._ Yato paused. _Could it be…?_ The girl? Had she left this for him? But, no—she hadn't seemed overly fond of him, from what he had gathered when she had nearly fractured his cheekbone. Still, no one had traveled through the forest for days, which crossed out a mere traveler or vagabond…

Yato's breathing was shallow as he thought: _Could— Could it have been—?_

_But, no._ He told himself, firmly. _That— That isn't possible. No._

So, the girl, then? Yato stared at the jar, twisting it around in his hands. Then, he uncorked it, dropping the cap on the ground. Hesitantly, he brought the open container up to his nose, and gave it a tentative sniff—it was bitter, and—and—

He sneezed, then coughed. His shoulder ached. "P— Powder?" Yato wheezed, looking at the jar with watering eyes. Then, he dipped a finger into it; it came up faintly green, coated in something as fine as dust, and about as appealing, too. Yato eyed it with suspicion, but brought it to his mouth, anyway. He stuck his tongue out. "Disgusting." He managed, because that was what it was—it tasted like dirt, only with that same bitter stench it had had.

"What _is_ it?" He wondered. Then, a thought struck him. "_Oh_."

.

.

.

"Hiyori."

"…Yes?" She folded the kimono in her lap 'til it was a square; then, she set it on the pile with the others. That was all of it. She pursed her lips.

Chikako looked at her worriedly. She frowned. "Would you mind getting some water from the well?"

Hiyori blinked. Then, she stood and turned. "Sure." She said, heading towards the door—

"—Hiyori?"

She looked back, "yes, Mother?"

"Are you—" Chikako hesitated, folding her hands in front of her. She shook her head. "No, it's nothing. Never mind."

Hiyori nodded belatedly, giving her mother a brief, forced smile, before pushing pas the mat and letting it flutter shut behind her. She walked around the side of the house, grabbed one of their spare pales, and then headed down the path, through the cluster of houses, along the street. The dry dirt pressed between her toes, pebbles sticking against the heels of her feet.

She thought of him—the Yato god, he had said; but then again, why should she believe him? He could have lied—why wouldn't he have? He had left, after all. It made him as good as guilty. Him—that boy who she had helped. She had _let_ him escape. She had enabled him. She had— Hiyori shook her head. It was all her fault. She was so—so _stupid_ for wanting to believe him, even a bit; that boy—that _boy–god_—

—Hiyori blinked.

She had, hadn't she? Even if it was in the slightest way, the tiniest bit—she had wanted to believe him. Him—that boy who looked no older than her, who had seemed so _human_ lying on the forest floor, bleeding and burning from a terrible impurity. He had looked so vulnerable, so innocent—perhaps he had looked that way moments before he had attacked Yama and Ami.

Hiyori swallowed, shaking her head. She walked towards the well in the center of the marketplace—which, by now, was nearly empty, save for a few old women who chattered conspiratorially by one's house. She took her bucket, rope gripped in her hands, and threw it down the shaft, hearing the _splosh_ as it landed and filled with water. Then, she began hauling it up, gritting her teeth as she dragged it up. When it finally resurfaced, Hiyori took it into her arms, ignoring the chill it made when it sloshed over the rim and onto her chest.

And as Hiyori stumbled out of the marketplace, past the houses and the old women, she heard them murmur: "Those attacks, I'm telling you—it's the wrath of a vengeful god."

.

.

.

Hiyori set the bucket down by the hearth. Her mother was nowhere to be found—where she might have been evaded Hiyori's thought entirely. She sighed, ignoring her damp kimono, and headed towards her futon. But, as she crouched by it, she stilled.

For, sitting on the bedding, was the sleek, clay–made medicine jar from the woods.

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: Finally, an update that's on time! (Just barely.) _Hotei_ is the Japanese god of good health and abundance. (Coincidence, perhaps?) Anywho, some important stuff happening, am I right? Character development, bond development..._

_Tell me what you think!_


	6. The Encounter at Dawn

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami._

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 06:_

_The Encounter at Dawn_

.

.

.

.

.

"You look pleased." Chikako noted to Hiyori, a bowl of rice and vegetables clasped in her thin hands.

Hiyori swallowed her meal, nodding. She smiled and felt that it was the most genuine thing she had done these past few days. "Yes." She said.

Chikako tilted her head. "Is there a reason for it?"

Blinking, Hiyori spoke, reluctantly: "well, yes." Then, she added: "I—I visited Ami, and—she looks like she's doing well." She looked at her mother, hesitantly. "Do you think— Do you think that she'll awaken soon…?"

Chikako swallowed, looking down at the frayed fabric of her kimono. She pulled an earnest smile. "Perhaps soon," she agreed, taking a bite of her dinner. Then, her gaze wandered to the empty seat on the floor, where her husband would have sat. "Your father has been over there so often, and at Yama's…"

Watching her mother's silent grief, Hiyori pursed her lips; then, she leaned forward, resting a hand on Chikako's wrist. It felt fragile, like a bird's wing. Had she been eating properly? Had she been sleeping at all? "Mother," she began, tentatively, "I'm sure Father will be home soon." She tried her best to sound assured. Hiyori did not think that she could afford to doubt at all.

Chikako smiled, too, though it was lacking. "I'm sure." She said.

They continued their meal in relative silence, the sound of the crickets turning into a deafening lull—summer was nearing, the cold of spring thawing, and winter was becoming a bitter memory. The harvests would come in abundance, now, as would some meat from the animals—the trade would pick up and the town would gain some liveliness. There was hope and promise in the air.

But… There was also unsureness. Though Ami and Yama were both alive, healing, they had yet to awaken—some spoke of curses and hexes, of a yōkai's wrath, or a god's. (And Hiyori cringed at this.) After all, the attacker was still undiscovered; and no other incidents had been reported in the towns spread out over the kilometers of the countryside. The killer was still on the loose.

_The killer…_ Hiyori thought of the jar, sitting on her bed. She knew it had to have been him—that boy whom she had thought had fled. But he was still here, near town, hiding in the forest away from sight—but not from mind. Hiyori had had trouble thinking of much else—feeling much else about anything.

Was she supposed to be pleased that he was lingering? That he had accepted her gift and returned it, almost as an unspoken gesture of gratitude or obligation? Or should she be fearful—as if she was not already—that a potential bloodthirsty criminal was lurking mere kilometers from her bed? That he knew where she _lived? _After all, staying did not prove innocence—a lack of fear, perhaps, but not genuineness. No new attacks had been reported; and he had not left. _Could it be…? _Hiyori swallowed, chopsticks reaching to find another piece of her dinner, but they _clinked_ forlornly. She looked down—her bowl was empty.

"I think I will head to bed, Mother," she said quietly, preparing to rise from her kneeling and set her bowl near the bucket for washing.

Something catch at her wrist. Hiyori turned and saw her mother's pale, anxious face.

"No, no," Chikako began and then she swallowed, adding: "Please stay for a moment, dear." She gave a wavering smile, as if to assure.

Hiyori felt nothing of it; she sat reluctantly, looking at her mother worriedly. "Is—" she began, "—Is everything alright? With Father, with you—"

"—Everything is fine." Chikako promised, settling into her knelt position with uneasiness. Then, she looked at Hiyori, the lines of her eyes and mouth pinched with fretfulness. "You—You might have noticed that I have been busy, recently. I told you that I was visiting Yama and Ami's parents," at Hiyori's worried gaze, she added: "and I have been, but I have—I have also been working with the village elders." She admitted reluctantly.

Hiyori blinked, and worry morphed into confusion. "The—The elders?" She looked at her mother. "_Why_?"

Chikako rubbed at her sleeve. "With Yama's attack, and all of the chaos it has caused… We believe that it will be beneficial to have a sort of guard watching over the village. To make sure the culprit does not strike again."

"A—A _guard?"_ Hiyori gawked.

"Yes." Chikako said. "It will make people feel safer," she added, "and help to keep the peace."

"But— With _weapons?"_

Chikako blinked. "Well, yes, swords. But Hiyori," she reached over, pressing a hand against her daughter's knee. "This will just be to assure the townspeople; it will be nothing grand or terrible, just a few village men looking to keep a watchful eye over us. Nothing more."

Hiyori stared. She was not sure what to think at this—yes, a guard would be comforting, but still… If they were looking for the killer, did that mean that they would find the boy, Yato-gami?

Did she… Did she _want_ them to find him?

She shook her head. "That—" Hiyori pulled a smile. "—That sounds great, Mother," she assured, "a wonderful idea."

Chikako looked relieved; she sighed as though she had heaved a great burden and had just only been able to set it down. "I am so grateful that you feel that way," she smiled, standing. "Alright, then. I'll clean up; you wash up and head to bed—rest. Perhaps we can visit Ami tomorrow, ne?"

Hiyori nodded, still kneeling on the floor. She looked at her hands, folded in her lap. "Yes," she managed, though her voice sounded false to her own ears. "That sounds great."

.

.

.

Hiyori awoke at dawn.

The morning was cool and crisp, and she could hear the cricket's clamor dying down to a lull. The sun had not fully risen, but she could hear the farmers rising—the call of the cattle, the cawing of the rooster. The day would soon begin.

She rose groggily from her futon, the bed warm in the morning briskness. She wanted so dearly to lie down and sleep, but there was work to be done—and now was the only time she could afford to attend to it.

Glancing over at her parents' futons, she saw that both were there—even her father, who had been missing from all the recent family meals. He was snoring alongside her mother, tucked beneath their covers. Hiyori then stumbled to her feet, the dirt cold against her toes, and lumbered towards them. She stretched out her foot, nudging her father's side—buried under the blankets—and stiffened when he mumbled.

But he did not awaken.

Hiyori let out a sigh of relief and then returned to the corner, pulling out her kimono and dressing as hurriedly—and quietly—as she could. The air was cold against her skin, and goosebumps arose on her arms. She shivered.

Then, she tiptoed out of their small hut, pushing the mat aside and wincing at the rattling the woven reeds made. She heard her parents' bedding rustle, but they did not rise, and so she continued on her way.

Once more, Hiyori forewent the path towards the forest that went through the village—with the new guard now present and roaming, she could not afford to have them see her or follow her. It crossed her mind about how odd it was, that she could no longer risk being seen by her neighbors and friends; as though she was doing something terrible. She bit her lip.

It was not wrong, though, was it? The boy—Yato-gami—was not evil; not that she knew. She had no legitimate evidence that he had attacked her friends, had murdered all of those people that was not circumstantial. And was the possibility of guiltiness worth forgoing potential innocence as well? Could she damn him simply so she would _not_ risk believing him?

Hiyori shook her head. She wove around her house and when she crossed the brook bank she leapt over it. She landed unsteadily on the other side, looking back over her shoulder, at her village, her home.

Then, she turned away. She pushed back the feeling of guilt, of wrongness, and headed in to the forest.

.

.

.

Yato stared at the canopy of pine needles above him. Then, he glanced down, below, at the forest floor. He sighed.

He had not slept—he had been too restless for that. The powder that the girl had given him had worked well; the wound at his shoulder was healing well, for all he knew, and his Blight, too, had altogether disappeared. He took it as a sign that, perhaps, the universe did not hate him so much after all.

Still, there was the girl.

She had helped him—for no reason at all; not to benefit herself. Yato was sure she did not him, did not like him, did not know anything about him; yet she had saved him all of the same. He might have accused her of being dimwitted, but he wondered if it was because she was _kind_, as simple as that. _Or gullible,_ Yato thought with more plausibility, because he had never known a person who had done anything for another without some other motive in mind.

But she was not trusting. She doubted him, he knew, and he was sure that—if he gave her a reason at all—she would turn on him like a rabid wolf in the face of a meal. Mortals were like that; and her kind came in an especially fanatical, suspicious way.

Nonetheless, though, she had _helped _him—and he had repaid the favor, however slightly, when he had returned that jar of hers to her home. (It had not taken him an overly long time to find where she dwelt; the village was small, and he had seen her return there.)

Yato sighed, resting his head against the tree trunk; the bow he sat upon let it out a _groan_.

That village of hers had nearly been another victim in the long string of carnage plaguing the countryside. Her friends had nearly been next. Yato knew, however, that it would follow in the pattern of its predecessors—they always did. It would only be a matter of time before—

.

.

There was a _crack_. And then: "Is—Is anyone here?"

.

.

Yato blinked, peering down at the dimness that hid the ground—he could see a figure, standing far below him. It was a girl, wearing a kimono, her dark hair making her pale face and worn clothing pale smudges in the early morning light. Still, there was no mistaking it. It was her.

She saw him. Her eyes widened, and he saw her hands twist into the fabric of her kimono. "H—Hello? You— Yato-gami?"

He stared at her and then decided that there was no point in hiding when he had already been seen. He rolled off of the branch, flipping once, twice, and then landing in a crouch on the floor. The dirt dug in between his toes, and his eyes adjusted to the faint light—and then, the girl.

She looked at him, eyes wide—they were pink, he saw, and thought that it was a rather peculiar color for a human. Though, he knew those with stranger. Her hands were clenching the fabric of her worn kimono so tightly that he thought for a moment it might tear.

"You called." Yato said, rising to stand—his shoulder throbbed, and he thought, belatedly, that he might have overdone it.

The girl stared at him. She opened her mouth, then closed it, and repeated the process a few times. She looked like a fish pulled out of the water and thrown onto a bank.

After a few moments of it, Yato's patience was worn exponentially thin, and he bit out: "If all you came to do was look like a trout, then I will be going." He moved to turn, but was stopped by—

"—Why did you stay?"

Then, Yato turned, looking at her slowly, carefully. "What?"

Though her hands were trembling, her gaze was unwavering—admirable, in its own way. "You stayed," she said, "when you had no reason to. When I—I could have brought a whole array of men and swords with me. I could have— You could have left, would have been better off for it. Why did you stay?" She repeated, in a breath.

Yato stared at her. "I had no reason to leave," he said, quietly, "and, as you said, you gave me more reason to."

She looked at him, unsure and surprised.

Then, Yato decided that it was his turn: "Why did you help me," He questioned in turn, "when you had no reason to?"

The girl blinked. It was only after a few moments of tense silence that she ventured, with an air of hesitance, as though she was not quite sure herself: "I— You were dying. I couldn't have— I couldn't just _leave_ you."

"What if I had been the killer?" Yato said with a drawl that belied the tension in his shoulders, the feeling of a growing pit in his gut.

She was silent, looking at him—and then, seemingly, at herself, as though she was having a war of perspicacity within herself. Yato felt as if he had just given voice to one of her greatest concerns—he felt guilty, but at the same time, he was curious.

"I— You still could be," she looked at him, her gaze firm.

"Perhaps—but I am not." Yato told her.

"But I don't know that—you could be lying." She said, earnestly.

"I could be—but I am not." He said, growing tired of having to reiterate himself.

"Still," she ventured, tentatively, "you— I would like to believe that you aren't." She whispered, her hands gripping her kimono. "I— You— I would like to think that you're innocent."

Yato looked at her, feeling surprised. He blinked. "That," he said, for a lack of anything better, voice quiet, "may not be wise."

"No," she agreed, and it was the surest—and wisest—that she had sounded. Then, she looked up, and her eyes widened when they saw the treetops—already alit with the morning sun. "I—I have to go," she said, suddenly, and then turned, starting off. She looked over her shoulder, though, and stilled. She looked at him, he at her, and Yato felt a brief passing of understanding. "Thank you for returning the jar," she called, and then rushed through the trees—eventually, out of sight.

Yato watched her as she went, gaze lingering long after she had vanished from sight, and he realized, belatedly, that he did not even know her name.

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: A day late, and I'm sorry for that, but more stuff happens! A Yatori encounter! Hurray!_

_Reviews, (even to yell at me for posting late), are appreciated._


	7. The Visitor in the Town

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami._

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 07:_

_The Visitor in the Town_

.

.

.

.

.

Hiyori sighed, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Summer _was_ nearing, but spring was still very much here—though, today _was_ unseasonably cold. The past few days had been the same, too; the old gossips in the marketplace murmured of the wrath of the gods once more. But Hiyori tried not dwell on _that_.

Still, as she looked up at the sky, it was a clear blue—reminiscent of _another _shade she tried not to dwell on, either—the sun high at noontime. The weather had been fair, which was good for the upcoming crop—rain would lead to flooding, with the melting of the snow that still lingered on the mountains.

Everyone's mood had matched the new temperatures—cautiously cool but welcoming altogether. The prospect of growing trade and new stock had helped to ease the thoughts of the killer, though they were always ever present and lurking in the back of ones mind.

_Lurking…_ Hiyori thought back to the encounter in the forest, not two days prior. It had been so…_odd_ to speak with the figure that had haunted her mind—not a specter, but a boy who looked no older than herself. Simply that he had _been_ there was enough to qualm some of her worries—though, it still proved nothing. He could be guilty all the same, perhaps too dimwitted to flee. And that no more grievous crimes had occurred in the days following Yama and Ami's attack and his presence near the village, was even _more_ troubling…

Hiyori shook her head. She couldn't ponder it, not now, when she was going to visit Ami, still ill and incapacitated.

But… He had looked well—that was something she had taken comfort in, ever so slightly. It meant nothing personal, though; she thought it was similar to what her father often said: _I am content in saving lives; it does not matter whose._

_Father. _He had been home so late, recently—working himself into the ground to keep his patients out of it. Often, he slept for hours, ate quickly and little. It worried mother terribly, too.

_And Mother_. Chikako had been frantic, lately—worried sick about the town and her husband. She often sat up late, waiting for Oda to return, meal still in a bowl, waiting for him, the firelight flickering low in the hearth 'til the early hours of the morning. And her hectic organizing of the new patrolmen and strategizing with them only worsened her lack of sleep.

Hiyori pursed her lips. _Patrolmen. _She had not been able to tell Yato-gami about that—had had to return home before she had been able to. But did she _want_ to tell him? It was true that, yes, she had been unable to prove that he was the killer, the attacker, the one responsible for all of this grief and strife. But that did not mean that he was innocent; did not mean that he was not responsible for Ami and Yama's state.

Then, Hiyori looked up—she was nearing the hill where Ami's house sat, lone and dark on the hill. She trekked up the worn pathway, the bundle of jars and preserves—wrapped in one of her mother's shawls—pressed to her chest.

She paused in front of the quaint home, though, before leaning in and wrapping her knuckles lightly against the doorframe. "Hatō," she ventured, and then: "Miyu…?" to Ami's mother, in the chance that she might be present. "It's Hiyori, I—well," she looked down at the bundle in her arms. "I'm here with some food—"

—The mat of reeds was pushed open and Hiyori stared at the worn face of Ami's mother. Miyu smiled, but it pulled at the lines beside her mouth and eyes—lines that, Hiyori noted, had not been there days ago. "Hiyori," she said, "it's good to see you." She looked at what she carried. "Please, please, come in," she said and pushed the mat out of their way.

Hiyori nodded, "It's—It's good to see you, too," and she stepped into the small hut; she glanced over, haphazardly, and saw Ami—still lying in her cot, looking as immobile as another piece of furniture. _She's still so pale,_ Hiyori thought with a pang in her chest.

Miyu walked past her and took the bundle from her arms. "Your parents are so thoughtful," she sighed, bringing the baggage over to the hearth where she set it down. She turned back to Hiyori, a hand pressed to her cheek. "So kind to us. To Ami." And she glanced over at her daughter.

With a tentative smile, Hiyori said: "It's no problem, Miyu. We can't imagine doing anything else."

Miyu managed a laugh. "You're mother's been so kind to me. Always visiting whenever Hatō isn't here, keeping me company." Then, she looked at Hiyori, hopefully, and ventured: "Would you like some tea?"

Hiyori blinked.

"You came all this way," Miyu added, pressing her hands together. "It would be wrong of me to accept your gift without returning some of the favor."

There was a look to her eyes—something lonely, something hopeful, and Hiyori thought how terrible it must be, staying at home and caring for your daughter when she might never awaken; often without your husband. She nodded. "I would be grateful, Miyu."

.

.

.

Yato rubbed a hand over his face.

The water from the creek was cold—so icy that he felt the tip of his nose burn to slow numbness. He scowled. Washing up at the brook was always unpleasant; still, with the coldness of the evenings setting in early and leaving late, it was worse than usual.

"Damn," he muttered, standing. He did his best not to shiver and when his toes felt numb, he curled them into the dirt of the forest floor. Pine needles dug into his heels.

It had been a few days since the encounter with the girl—he had thought of it often, mulled over it and battered it around like a barn cat with a hay mouse. It still struck him as strange—though the oddness of it had begun to wear into curiosity.

That girl _was_ perplexing, though. Folks of her kind were not usually so brave—and that is what he chalked her up to be: noble. Not for her own sake, for her own vendetta, but for her friends. She was loyal.

But at the same time, she had helped him. She was either a fool, moral, or a moral fool, though they were often the very same thing. Still, Yato had always found that someone's will only ran so far as the benefit they could gain from it—measured in wealth or lust or a chance to rule—and yet, he could not see what she could gain from her obstinacy.

_Perhaps a futon beside her friends._ He grimaced.

That was the truth, though; which made Yato think her to be a fool, because if she knowingly went against this logic—no matter how righteous she was—she could only be a dimwit.

Yato sighed, rubbing at his nose, which was running from the chill that hung amongst the forest floor; he longed for the sun that shone against the high bow in his pine. Then, he scowled when he heard the _tear_ of fabric; his sleeve had ripped and he eyed the threadbare clothe with distaste.

He had worn this kimono for so long and it had finally given out—at such an inopportune time, too. Now, he would have to find and steal a new one, and the only place to do that was…

In town.

Yato pursed his lips. _Perfect_. Like he needed another arrow in his shoulder. _But…_ His eyes narrowed. _Town. Girl. _They came together.

He smiled, looking down at his sleeve.

Perhaps it was not so unfortunate after all.

.

.

.

Hiyori glanced down at her cup—it was nearly empty, now. She had nearly spent an hour already, sitting and listening to Ami's mother tell tales with relish.

"—She took such offense," Miyu's said, "when I merely stated that she had sold me eggs past their prime. And this was true! Hatō was sick for months, and so was Ami…" But then, her fervent voice trailed off. Her teacup sat untouched beside her. She turned her head, looking over at her daughter, who lay unmoving in her cot, as she had for days.

Blinking, Hiyori swallowed, setting her teacup down beside her. "M—Miyu," she ventured, "is…" She trailed off, though, when she saw the forlorn look on her hostess' face.

Miyu's gaze was soft, not only with maternal tenderness, but with downtrodden worry, too. "She's always like that. Never waking." She said of Ami, a hand pressed to her cheek. "It worries me terribly and Hatō, too. We spend the nights by her bedside in case she should wake." Her voice wavered. "But she has yet to, still."

Hiyori swallowed and reached across the space to press her hand against Miyu's worn, calloused one. "I am sure it's only a matter of time." She promised with a smile she hoped did not speak of the unease she felt. She did her best to look reassuring.

"But how much?" Miyu wondered and her eyebrows knit. "How much longer 'til I can have my daughter back?"

Hiyori stared. She did not know what to say; how could she understand this woman's pain? This mother, who had nearly lost her daughter and still could?

It was after moments of silence that Miyu said, quietly: "Hatō is rarely home, save for the night. He's joining that patrol group," she looked at Hiyori, "the one your mother started. He wants to find who did this—to Ami, to our family," her gaze was hard, perhaps from the same thing that had made the lines appear by her mouth and the age start to gray her hair. "To this village. To find them and punish them."

Biting her lip, Hiyori averted her gaze. She could not help but feel guilty, though she told herself adamantly that she had no reason to. There was no resounding proof that Yato-gami was the culprit, and so her involvement with him—no matter how distant and brief—was no betrayal to her loyalties.

Still, as she looked at Ami's mother, sick with grief and worry, she thought: _maybe—maybe I…I should tell them._ Would it do more harm than good, though? What if he was innocent? What if she was simply stirring the pot? But then, what if he wasn't? Wouldn't it be more damaging not to come forward?

Hiyori shook her head. Now was not the time, nor the place—not in the same room as Ami and her worry stricken mother. "M—Miyu," she managed with a smile she hoped to be convincing, "I—I'm afraid that I have to go. Mother wants me home early." She lied and pushed through the guilt, hoping that it appeared to be the truth. "To help with the laundry."

Miyu blinked, looking at her. "Of course," she said. "Of course," she repeated and stood, "I've kept you long enough, haven't it?" She laughed, lightly, "I'm so sorry."

Hiyori stood, tightening her shawl. "It's no trouble," she assured and looked once more at Ami, lying still on her futon. "I—I'm happy to do all I can to help."

Smiling, Miyu said: "Well, thank you for keeping a lonely old woman company."

"It was no trouble." Hiyori insisted and then, she added: "I should be off. Thank you for the tea." She bowed deeply, hoping that humbleness might atone for her lack of honesty.

"Thank you for the company." Miyu repeated, mimicking the gesture, her wrinkled hands folded in front of her.

"Farewell, then," Hiyori said, haltingly, before glancing back once—at Ami—and pushing past the reed mat, heading out the doorway, chin tucked against her chest. She trekked down the slope of the hill, down the trodden path, past the swaying grass. Every breath she took felt free of the weight that that house had laid upon her—that the grief, worry, and guilt had rested upon her shoulders.

It was only when she reached the base of the hill, where the path from Ami's house reached the road to the village, that Hiyori looked back. She saw Miyu, standing in front of her hut, waving with a lone hand to her in parting.

Perhaps it was this—the sight of a woman, wrought in a despair and grief that Hiyori could not understand and felt some part of in causing, that led Hiyori to cup her hands around her mouth, and call: "Miyu—!"

The woman's waving halted.

"—If—If you would like, I could—I could come back, and we could have tea another time?" Hiyori offered, hopefully.

It was after a moment that, from her place by her home, Miyu cupped her hands around her mouth and called, in turn: "I would like that very much, I think!"

"Soon, then!" Hiyori smiled and waved, hand around her shawl, before she began to head down the road towards the village. Her footfalls were lighter than when she had been coming rather than going.

.

.

.

Her walk through town was riddled with thoughts of her encounters with both Yato and Miyu. She could not help but feel as if she was slighting the latter by speaking with the former; or, more accurately, not informing anyone else of the former himself. It was as though she was betraying her people, her friends who were lying prostrate in their bedding, her family who was working tirelessly night and day, and all of the others who had suffered and were suffering, and all—possibly—because of this young boy.

Still, Hiyori did not feel entirely confident in telling anyone about him. He could very well be innocent and he could very well be guilty, but while she was unsure herself, she did not see it as so wise to let another judge for her.

_But…_ Was it so noble to lie, all to avoid the possibility of confusion? For, if Yato-gami _was_ guilty, then her reluctance was misplaced, and the blame for every step he took free and untried—and every step those had harmed were not able to take—was to be placed upon her shoulders.

Hiyori sighed, looking down at path—then around, at the marketplace. People still milled about, though the trade had yet to resume to its full clamor of a summer's afternoon. Soon, all of the homes would be closed up for the evening, while the patrolmen roamed about with swords and torches, safeguarding their village against an unknown evil.

_But was it so unknown?_ Hiyori herself could not be sure of that. She could very well have seen the face of this killer before—in the face of the odd–eyed Yato-gami—or she could have not.

She bit her lip, hand gripping her shawl, as she trekked out of the market, through the small houses, towards her own. It was as she glanced about, absently, that—

Hiyori blinked. She saw a clothesline—behind two houses tucked closely together—sway, its linens and kimonos rustling. There was no cause for it, either, no strong gale or person that she could notice. Hiyori's eyebrows furrowed and she looked around the corner and swallowed. "Is anyone—Is anyone there?" She ventured.

The clothesline swayed, but no one heeded her call.

Frowning, Hiyori took a step forward, but stilled. How silly was it, to barge into someone else's chore work? But there was a nagging feeling at her, one that felt similar as to that first day in the forest, and so she walked slowly to the line, which sat behind the houses.

With a breath, she came out from behind the corner, and stared. "Y—You." She breathed.

.

.

There he was. Yato-gami. Hiyori blinked once, twice, thrice, and swallowed. "You—what are you doing?" She stared.

He looked at her. He was standing on his toes, rummaging with the clothesline. At his feet, a discarded kimono sat; the same one she had seen him in those past days… He looked at her, too, and said slowly, hands lowering: "This may seem rather peculiar, I know—"

"—Were you—" She gawked. "—Did you steal that kimono?" and Hiyori pointed to the garment he was wearing; a dark green thing, stitched together finely, that drooped over his thin, gaunt shoulders and sagged at his wasteline.

Yato pursed his lips. "I prefer the term 'borrowing for an extend amount of time'."

"But why— What are you doing here?" Hiyori stared. "Why are you stealing peoples clothing?"

"I believe your second question answered your first." He said, wittily. "After all, one can't spend days in a forest, wounded and ill, without needing another change of clothes at some point."

Hiyori felt no surer, or understanding, from his logic. "But you—you stole it." She breathed and then shook her head quickly. "Return it." She declared, firmly, hands tight at her side.

He blinked. "What?"

"Return the kimono." Hiyori insisted. "And—And you need to leave, too." She glanced over her shoulder.

"Here I was, coming to visit you," Yato-gami said, looking at her, "and this is how I'm treated? How unsightly." He sniffed.

She stared. "You— You were coming to see _me?"_ This made her feel no sounder. To have him roaming about, looking for her, while stealing others' belongings and perusing around the village—that was unsettling. She felt no more comfortable with that than she would sleeping on pinecones and stones.

"We never did get to finish our talk in the woods," Yato-gami reminded her. "You fled like a cat with your tail in between your legs."

"I did not— I had to be home before my parents awoke," Hiyori said, affronted. Then, she wondered why she was defending herself to this conniving thief at all. "But you—you need to leave. And you need to return the kimono." She insisted, firmly. "Before the people come back and find you."

"You're quite demanding." Yato-gami stated, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You—" She swallowed, tightening her hands. "—If you're found here, it won't end well." Hiyori warned, and prayed—though, she wondered what good that would do, in the presence of a spirit of his kind, god or not—that reason might work.

Yato-gami looked at her and seemed curious as well as unyielding. "For who?"

Hiyori opened her mouth to answer him, but—

—He was behind her, suddenly, frighteningly close, terribly quickly. Her eyes widened. "For me?" Yato-gami leaned in, face centimeters from her ear. "Or you?"

Hiyori yelped, scampering forward, and whirled on him, "y—you—you can't—"

.

.

—There was a terrible sound, then—a sound of screams and wood splintering and breaking, off at a distance, though not so far away as she would have liked.

Hiyori turned, looking towards the marketplace, though she could not see past the houses. The commotion was clamoring and she saw—over Yato-gami's shoulder, as he looked in the same way as her—people darting past the houses, fleeing rapidly, some hollering.

"Are all you humans so loud, or is that trait native to this particular village?" Yato-gami griped, but Hiyori was already darting past him, towards the mouth of the passageway between the two houses. She looked down the street, towards the marketplace, as people rushed past her. "What—What's—?" Her eyebrows knit.

Yato-gami was behind her, then, peering past her and down the lane, too.

Amongst the people rushing down the lane, a woman came, darting close to the houses. Her eyes were wide, as was her mouth, and she wailed with terrible earnestness:

"There's a spirit in the marketplace—!"

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: And...cliffhanger. _;)

_(Hey, things had to get interesting _sometime_.)_


	8. The Spirits in the Marketplace

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami._

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 08:_

_The Spirits in the Marketplace_

.

.

.

.

.

Hiyori stared down the street, long after the woman had disappeared into the throng of people—a crowd was steadily streaming down the road, a few men shoving forward against the currents. _Men of the patrol,_ she thought. Her breath caught in her throat.

_A spirit in the marketplace, _the woman had said.

She looked over her shoulder, past the loose strands of her hair that had escaped from her bun. Yato-gami was still behind her, peering at the crowd. A spirit, it had been said_—_but he was here with her; and if a spirit was on a rampage, could it have been the one that had attacked Yama and Ami—that had killed all of those people? Or was it just a rogue? She looked at him.

He glanced at her, lips pursed, "What?" He raised an eyebrow.

Hiyori opened her mouth—but what could she possibly say when she was unsure herself? She closed it and shook her head.

Then—there was a momentous _crash_. Hiyori yelped, looking over towards the marketplace, and saw a house nearby collapse inward, dust and smoke pluming into the noon sky as wood splintered and cracked. There was an array of screams, and the torrent of villagers increased. Then, another house was demolished. Each one was closer to them than the last.

She swallowed, gripping the skirt of her kimono, and began to back away—through the pass between the two houses. Hiyori saw, though, that Yato-gami was remaining still, looking out. His gaze was hard, his jaw set, his hands tight at his sides. He was tense.

Another house broke.

He stood.

Then, another.

And he remained.

"Ya—Yato-gami—" Hiyori called tremulously, raising a hand towards him. She felt the fear building within her, a strong desire to flee conflicting with an inability to _move_.

Another home—next to one she hid behind—was demolished, screams clashing against the breaking of wood and the crumbling of rubble. Hiyori flinched, pressing against the wall of the house behind her.

Yato-gami did not move.

Hiyori foresaw what would occur next, then; she reached a hand out and cried, "_Yato-gami—!"_, just as the house next to them was demolished.

.

.

Her hands trembled as she uncovered her eyes—her whole being seemed to quake and her chest heaved in breaths of dust and dirt. There was a terrible stining in her head, along her temple and hairline. Hiyori's back pressed rigidly against the house behind her, her rear on the ground, and she stared in a daze of horror—with a clarity that surprised herself, dimly—at the sight before her eyes.

Yato-gami stood, meters in front of her. She did not know how he had managed to move so quickly through the explosion—but then, he was not unscathed, she knew, as she watched the sleeve of his kimono dribble blood onto the ground. Hiyori did not know if he had hurt himself in the demolition—or was injured by the enormous creature he was keeping at bay.

It was a monstrously sized wolf—as big as a horse, with a pelt of gray and white. Its canines were like splinters of bone shoved into its mouth, jagged and vicious. Its claws, though, were what held her gaze—sharp as an owl's, which she had seen once, when her father had put a splint on the wing of an injured one. Most, no doubt, looked as though they could gut a cat or a dog easily.

This wolf's, though—his looked like they could slit open a person's stomach with ferocious simplicity.

And the only thing stopping him from doing so to Yato-gami was a simple piece of wood, no doubt collected from the remains of the home, that the latter was using to hold back one of the wolf's enormous paws.

But the true oddity of the creature, Hiyori saw, as she strained to look up at it, was not its size, nor its brutal appearance, but the mask that rested upon its elongated head. It was a oval one, white as bone, with a black eye painted upon it. It seemed to gaze at her while the wolf's eyes did not.

Hiyori swallowed, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to call, though it came out in the feeblest of whispers: "Y—Y—Yat—Yato-ga—"

He had his jaw clenched, the muscles of his throat standing out. His arms trembled, their grip on the board shaking, and the flow of blood had gone from a dribble to a steady drizzle onto his feet and the ground on which he stood on. The sleeve of his kimono was soaked. Still, despite the effort, he managed, in a rough voice, to say: "_Go_."

Hiyori stared, her hands still trembling, gripped her shawl. She tried yet again to speak, but could not find the capabilities—her mind was working at a slow pace, but everything she saw seemed to be starkly clear. "B—But—"

_"Go." _He demanded and it was underscored by the groaning of the board in his hands—the wood splintered, the wolf's claws digging in.

A low growl crawled its way out of the beast's throat. The board creaked and it began to bend under the force of the monster's paw.

_"Go—!"_ Yato hollered and the board broke in two. The beast lunged forward, Yato rolling out of the way, hand clutching his arm, in time for the wolf to hurtle forward into the wall of the house in front of it.

The beast was meters away from Hiyori and she cowered, hands covering her head, as wood splintered as the wall brook. She looked back only to see a gaping hole inside of the home. A ferocious roar erupted from within the hut and Hiyori's skin broke out in gooseflesh.

"Why won't you _go—?!"_ Yato-gami yelled to her, on the other side of the hole, kneeling, holding his shoulder. "Go—_Go—!"_

Hiyori swallowed and tried to open her mouth to speak—she tried to understand what he was telling her. But she couldn't—it all seemed too confusing, too undecipherable, too unreal…

There was the sound of wood creaking and breaking as the wolf appeared from within the house, amongst the throng of dust, (dimly, Hiyori could hear the screams of the townspeople). It did not spare her a look, turning instead to Yato, its dull eyes boring into him. It took a step forward.

Yato took a step back, a hand still clutched to his shoulder. He stared back.

Another step.

And then, another back. But every stride the wolf took brought it steadily closer, and Hiyori stared in bated horror.

Another step.

Another back.

"Y—Y—Ya—Ya…" Hiyori tried hoarsely, but she could not wrench the words from her throat. "—Ya—Yato—" Her hands twisted into the dirt below her, trembling all the while, and it was then that her fingers jostled a piece of splintered wood, broken free of the wreckage. She looked at it startlingly—then, back at Yato.

The wolf was on top of him, now; it moved a leg forward and knocked him onto his back. Yato lay prone, leaning up, propped on an elbow. He looked up at the ayakashi, leering at him.

"—Ya—Yato-ga—" Hiyori swallowed, her hands gripping the piece of kindling.

It was going to maul him—it was going to _kill_ him, in front of her very eyes. Then, she would be next—and her neighbors, her family, her friends. Perhaps the whole village would look like—wreckage and blood.

As she stared, Yato glanced at her, and his eyes widened, "You—" he stared and blurted the words out: "—What—What are you _doing?_"

Hiyori looked back at him and then down at herself. She blinked—she was standing, now, the wood gripped in both of her trembling hands.

She took a step forward.

"Don't—" Yato's voice was hoarse and he shook his head, slightly, "—Don't—"

Another step.

"—Don't—Don't—" He shook his head furiously, now; all the while, the wolf's paw lay on his chest, pinning him. The mongrel did not move, did not notice her or did not care.

Hiyori edged closer, 'til she could touch it if she had so desired. She raised the stake in her hand—she did not know what she might do; but she knew, as her hands trembled, that she would bring the splinter of wood down as _hard_ as she could.

"—You _stupid_ girl—!" Yato hollered. "—_Don't do it—!"_

The wolf turned, then; its lip curled, teeth bared, a snarl burbling out of its throat. It took its paw off of Yato, eyeing her menacingly, and turned slowly. The eye on its mask seemed to stare back at her intently.

Hiyori held the stake, her mouth opened; but she could speak and could not drive the wood down.

The ayakashi lowered itself, almost to a crouch, and its growl took on a ferocious intensity.

She swallowed.

"—Listen," Yato was slowly bringing himself to a stand; he spoke slowly, quietly, and with a grave inflection, "you need to run." He said, quietly and earnestly; looking at her. "_Now_."

The wolf's growl went up in pitch.

"—_Now,"_ Yato forced out.

The beast snarled—and Hiyori winced, eyes clenched shut, waiting for the feel of claws slicing flesh and shattering bone. She waited for the pain with abated breath—but there was none and she opened her eyes, looking blearily at the monstrosity of a wolf.

It had stilled, its snarling ceased, and it looked over towards the marketplace, its head turned. After a few moments, in which the silence was made up of the shouts of the fleeing townspeople, the rubble of houses still settling, and the pounding of her heart.

Then, the wolf looked at her and growled. Then, it turned to Yato-gami—it held his gaze, bared its fangs, and then turned away, darting through the wreckage of the house adjacent to them, barreling down the street, through the ruins, 'til it was out of sight.

Hiyori could only stare—her hands shook, her grip on the stake loosened, and it fell to the ground, still by her feet. And, by her feet, she saw splotch of blood. She blinked, watching as more dribbled down; tentatively, Hiyori reached her hand up, pressing it to the side of her face, where she felt wetness. She pulled it away and looked down at her hand, smeared with her own blood.

She could hear the sound of the townspeople, panicking still—more were approaching, she bet. She looked up, fleetingly, at Yato-gami.

He stood, a short ways away, clutching his shoulder. He looked pale—hair dark, eyes bright as he looked after the wolf, where it had disappeared. He looked back at her, then, and there was something unknowable in his eyes.

Then, he was gone.

.

.

.

Yato stumbled through the forest.

His arm burned with a fury, the gash in it bleeding profusely, no matter how strongly he applied pressure—but, no, his kimono sleeve was thoroughly soaked with blood, now. It was sopping, and could do no good.

He snarled.

The ayakashi, the village, the girl—he recalled it all with clarity. How a monstrous being of that size had appeared in such a wayward town was beyond him. And then, after it had wreaked so much havoc and caused so much panic, it had simply _left_.

But only _after_ it had seen him and the girl.

_Her_. Yato pursed his lips, his eyes clenched shut, and then, leaned against a tree. He could not go any further—and could not make himself, either. He slid down, against the rough bark, 'til he was on his knees, resting against the damp forest floor. He let out a harsh breath, as his thoughts went back to the girl.

She had not run—when he had told her, demanded her to; when all common sense dictated to _flee_ like her townsfolk, she had stayed. He did not know if it was out of concern for him, or stupidity, or bravery, or all of it together. But once more, she had remained when she should not have. And daring to raise that splinter of wood against that beast—she had tried to help him, again, too, when all common sense dictated that she should not.

He closed his eyes, swallowing thickly—he felt the layers of dirt and dust clogging his throat and let out a raucous cough, his frame shaking.

Yato opened his eyes, staring blearily out at the forest. It was still afternoon, the sun fairly high in the sky—and yet, he felt elderly and tired, worn. He wondered if it was from the blood loss and again looked at his arm with disdain.

He would have to bind the wound; using his sleeve, no doubt.

Which meant ruining another kimono.

He sighed.

.

.

.

Hiyori pressed a hand to her head, looking down at her reflection in the water basin.

The band of cloth that was compressed to her head was held in place merely by the herbal sludge her father had applied to her wound to prevent infection lest it fester. The gash was not long, nor deep, but Oda had seen simple cuts bring people to their deathbeds, and he did not desire to take any risks with his own daughter.

_People…_ Hiyori looked up, towards the doorway of their hut. It was late afternoon, now, and burning sunlight streamed into their home, underneath the woven mat.

Outside, she could here the calls of people as they cleared the rubble that was their homes. The patrolmen were helping; atoning for their foolishness in the attack, when all the chaos had left them disoriented and unable to do the very task they had been appointed to. Then, there were the moans and cries of the wounded who had been harmed in the attack. Her father was tending to them, now, and though she had pleaded with him to let her as well, both Chikako and Oda had staunchly refused her request.

_"You're hurt,"_ her mother had said as Hiyori had laid in her bedding, her head throbbing, aching, and stinging with a vengeance. Then, she had added, softly, with a mother's care and worry: _"rest."_

Both of her parents were out now, helping to rebuild what was damaged, mourn what was lost, and care for the hurt.

Hiyori swallowed thickly. _Hurt—_her thoughts went back to Yato-gami; the way had he had clutched his arm and how the blood had pooled by his feet, smattering his pale skin. Then, how he had told her to flee; how she had not, and how he had looked at her with piercing eyes.

Eyes so unlike the beast that had been rampaging through town—eyes that were earnest, perhaps sincere. Yato-gami had told her to run, for no one's benefit but her own, she was sure. And when threatened, when they were both cornered, when she had been cowering, he had fought back and held his own. It could not have only been for his sake.

He had saved her. Yato-gami did not have to, but he had—and that act of courageousness and kindness nagged at her mind. If he was so terrible, so evil as she had once believed, then why had he been so heroic? Perhaps this was one isolated act of goodness, but it had still occurred, and she doubted that it was for no reason at all.

Hiyori stared at the floor of her hut—the dirt packed hard and firm underneath her feet. She scrunched her toes.

And now—he was alone, harmed, bleeding and helpless. He had no one, not like she had her father and mother, to tend to his wounds. She recalled, belatedly, that he had not had anyone before, either—that it was her that had had to help him, no matter how reluctant she had been.

She swallowed again, her throat feeling dry, and looked at the jars resting on the shelf—her father had taken many of them with him, and only one remained, now. But she knew what it was, simply looking at its make.

Hiyori furrowed her brow and took a step forward.

.

.

.

Yato breathed heavily.

The pain in his arm had flared to unprecedented agony—it was his bad arm, no less—and binding the wound had made it feel no better. It was getting colder, too, and the sweat on his skin made him shiver.

He had brought himself to his tree, though he could not find the strength to climb it. So, he sat below it, back pressed against the bark, in the lonesome dark of the forest as the evening approached. His kimono was stained with blood, his skin pale and feverish. He felt ill, terribly so, and though he could remember many a time he had felt so before, he thought back to only one…

Yato had been young, by both the standards of gods and mortals, and he had fallen into the koi pond by his home. His father had pulled him out, sopping wet, but it had been long enough that he had become ill that night. He could still recall the feel of the coarse sheets beneath him—the way the washcloth covering his forehead had never remained cool for too long. How Hīro had peered through the crack in the doorway, never deigning to enter the room, but how father had come in on occasion to change his washcloth, perhaps sitting at his side for a few moments at a time…

Yato stared at the forest around him, his gaze bleary.

He was no longer a child, now—he lay in the forest alone and bound his own wounds and fended for himself. The gash on his arm throbbed, and he knew that there was no one to take care of it for him.

Though, there had been someone. The girl—she had took care of him, once before, when the Blight had ravaged his body, the impurity staining his skin a sickening, bruised color. When his shoulder had been injured, too, she had helped him again. There was no reason for it; no familial or friendly ties. If anything, there was the opposite; a suspicion Yato knew she must harbor for him. Still, though, she had tended to him in her own way.

It befuddled him because he could find no reason for it—in his lifetime, all beings he had encountered had wanted something from him; himself included. Yato desired things for himself, of himself; but this girl, this human who possessed the same Near Shore sight and memory, had still bothered to save him.

And when the time had called for it, he had saved her, too, in turn.

Yato looked at the forest, darkening with the oncoming night, and watched the shadows play tricks upon his sight.

Then, he heard a rustling—though he knew that it could not be the wind in the trees.

.

.

Yato tensed and the pain in his arm was more profuse than ever. His eyes narrowed and he strained to hear and see more than what the day and his own body allowed. "Who is it?" He demanded, his voice harsh, his throat aching and sore.

Then, out of the thicket of trees and darkness, the girl emerged, much in the same way she had those few times before.

He blinked.

She was clad it the same kimono and shawl she had been wearing earlier, though she looked much more worn—her hair was still in a bun, too, though it was in disarray now. Her face was pale, smudged with dirt, and on the side of her forehead and temple was a strip of cloth, plastered to her skin.

_That's right,_ Yato recalled. _She was hurt before, too._

"I— Yato-gami," she nodded, standing a distance away from him. "I—" she swallowed. "—I've brought something for you—for your wounds…" She amended, looking at his arm, the torn sleeves of his kimono wrapped around it. Her face seemed gaunt as she stared.

Yato looked at her—and the jar in her arms, similar to the one from before. Then, he looked at his arm, too; he realized that the green of the kimono looked black, now, stained with his blood. "You…You did," he said, looking back at what she carried.

The girl nodded and swallowed. After a prolonged silence, she ventured, with as much reluctance as he had seen her possess before. "M—May I see it…?" She looked to his arm.

"I— You—" Yato tried, but his mind felt sluggishly inadequate and inept, unable to speak coherently. It was all so disorienting; the girl, the wound, the blood that stained so much of his arm.

She took a tentative step forward, the pine needles underneath her feet crunching, and when he did not speak to make her cease, she headed towards him, slowly, as though she was approaching a wounded animal. It was not so unsurprising, as he felt no better and bet that he looked no better, either.

Slowly, the girl crouched beside him. She looked at him from underneath her lashes and ventured, once more: "May I—May I see it…?"

Yato stared at her. Then, he slowly raised is arm, swallowing, and nodded sluggishly, his head lolling to the side.

She hesitated, but then took his forearm, holding it aloft with one hand. Her grip was slightly trembling, her palm warm, but her fingers were cold like the nearing evening. The contrast had Yato thinking back again to that day so long ago, when he had been so ill, when warmth had seemed scalding while cold had seemed freezing.

He watched her, feeling as distant as though they were kilometers apart, though they were mere centimeters away from each other, close enough that he could see the coarse material of her kimono; a navy—her shawl, beige. He looked on as she slowly unwound the strips of fabric around his wound, the cloth sopping with blood, and set them down at her feet. He watched as the blood from the binds stained the ground below—the dirt and the pine needles.

Yato looked up again as she stared at his wound, one strip of cloth still clutched in her hand. Her lips were pursed and she told him, softly: "This may sting." Glancing at him once, catching his gaze, then looking back to his wound, biting her lip, she pressed the cloth to his injury.

It did sting—still, the pain was muted, like all else he felt. His senses were dulled and he could not be sure if it was from his tiredness or his blood loss. Still, Yato watched as she gripped the cloth, her pale fingers bloody.

She glanced at him again, then pressed on, wiping away the blood that distorted the gash along his arm. When she was done, she picked up the strips of cloth from the ground, holding the sopping mound in her hand. "I— Is there a stream nearby?" She questioned.

Yato blinked, stared, and then nodded. He managed to say: "Not…Not too far away—east." He waved with his good arm, behind the tree, towards the creek.

The girl nodded. "I'll wash these. I'll be back, though; make sure you keep your arm raised." She looked at him for a long moment. Then, she stood, heading around him and towards the stream.

.

.

.

Hiyori dipped her hands into the creek, the cloths held loosely in her grip.

She could scarcely believe she had had the courage to approach him on her lonesome in the growing dark. Before, it had been different—she had been strong willed, had known for what purpose she was coming, and she had been surer in her thoughts of who this 'Yato-gami' had been. Before, her suspicions had grounded her in her opinions of him, no matter how conflicted she had still felt. But now—now, she felt that her thoughts of him were far more unbiased.

But Hiyori was nowhere near as sure about what he himself felt. Yato-gami, with his piercing gaze and evasive manner, was unknowable. Still, she felt more at ease with him, now—he was no threat, even if he desired to be, with his dazed consciousness and glazed–over looks. The blood loss from his wound had gotten to him.

Still, Hiyori felt that her hesitance around came less, now, from a distrust of him and more from not knowing him. She was not sure when it had happened—perhaps when he had saved her; or maybe it had been long before—but her feeling concerning Yato-gami had become, now, less about his possible actions and more about who he was himself.

Which led Hiyori to realize, more profoundly than she had before, that she knew little to nothing about the boy called Yato-gami. She did not know where he was from, nor his age or his history—she had never heard of a god who was called Yato, even. And while she had always known that her knowledge of him was lacking, it had stemmed more from not knowing what he had _done,_ as opposed to not knowing who he _was_.

Hiyori blinked, swallowing as she looked down at the stream. She watched as the last of the blood washed clean from the cloth, drifting in a murky haze down the brook before disappearing entirely. Her fingers were numb from the cold water of the stream.

She stood, turning while holding the cloths in her grasp. Hiyori squeezed them out, water dribbling onto the ground below, and then began her trek through the woods, back to Yato-gami and the large pine. She hustled quickly—leaving him to wait was not a good idea, in his poor state—through the trees, watching as the shadows grew as the sun set, the sky now blue at twilight.

Hiyori recalled the first time she had met Yato-gami, on an evening much like this, not too long ago, though it felt that way. And she remembered feeling much more fearful then than she did now.

.

.

.

When she returned to the colossal pine, Yato-gami was still beneath it. Though, this did not surprise her.

Hiyori moved forward carefully, the pine needles crunching beneath her feet, the dirt firm underneath her heels. She stood close to him, now, and knelt. He was staring, though his gaze was sluggish, his head lolling to the side. He had not managed to hold his arm up, either, and the wound bled anew down the length of his arm. "Yato-gami," she whispered. When he did not heed her call, she swallowed and then spoke, firmer: "Yato-gami."

He blinked, his gaze roving to hers.

"Hold up your arm," she asked of him, and after a moment, he complied, though the limb trembled—his pale skin stood out starkly. Then, Hiyori took the edge of her shawl and dabbed at the blood on his arm—she saw no sense in using the fresh cloth she had gotten. When that was done, she took the jar, still resting where she had left it, and took off its cap. She swiped her fingers inside it and then took the powder and rubbed it along one of the strips of cloth in her lap. Then, she picked it up. "This may sting," she warned.

Yato-gami did not seem to hear, or understand, or care.

Hiyori pressed the cloth to the wound, wrapping it around once, twice, 'til it was firmly secure. Then, she repeated the process, 'til the gash was covered and simply tied the rest of the cloths off. She sighed, watching Yato-gami set his arm back down at his side. She wiped her hands off on the skirt of her kimono.

Yato-gami looked down at his arm, now bandaged once more. After a moment, he said, voice slurred and soft: "You…'re… You're real…really good at th…this…you…y'know…" His blinked once and then, twice.

Hiyori blinked. "I—I learned from my father. He's—He's a healer," she admitted, quietly—after all, telling him could do no harm; not in his condition. And even if he was well and good, she wondered if she would not tell him because of it. She was not so sure—of herself, of her reasons, and of the Yato-gami she perceived to be a terrible being.

He hummed, his eyelids drooping. Yato-gami looked terribly tired, his face gaunt and pale. "…F…Father, eh…?" His gaze was glazed, the blue of his eyes nearly black in the shadows of the night. "I…I ha…have…one of tho…se…" He stared, distantly, into the shadows; but he did not seem to be looking at anything. "But…it…it's been a…a lo…long time…since…since…then…"

Hiyori stared, leaning closer. She had barely heard him, his voice was so quiet and hoarse—still, it surprised her and she did not know what to say in return. _A father…?_ She swallowed. Though gods _did_ give birth—the tale of Izanagi and Izanami told her so—the idea that Yato-gami might have a parent, might have once been a child, even, was befuddling.

Then, Yato-gami looked up at her, his gaze still bleary. "Ma…May I ask the na…name of the…the girl…who save…saved me…?" He wondered, his tone slurred, but almost wry.

Hiyori's eyebrows furrowed and she bit her lip. It was after a few moments of silence, kneeling on the cold forest floor with a bleeding god–child, that she offered, softly: "My name is Hiyori."

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: To quote George R. R. Martin, "This one was a bitch." _;)

_Still, even though it's late, it's super long—at least, to me—and stuff happens, so, great!_

_Still, there a few things I want to address: one, the reason why Hiyori was so helpless at the hands of the gigantic wolf was because she was in shock. If you've ever experienced, you know how stupefying it can be. Also, if you were faced with a monstrosity like that, I bet you'd be reacting the same way. Two, Yato was suffering from blood loss, hence why he was so nostalgic and "out of it"._

_Three—this is a long one—I hope you all noticed the real progression in Hiyori's opinion of Yato in this chapter. While she did not have an epiphany about him, and wasn't suddenly spouting, "Oh my god, I love you", she made some real break throughs. As I tried to stress, now, she is more willing to try to understand Yato. She is judging him less on what he _could_ have done and more on what he _has_ done. This is important._

_Also, just so you guys now, the title of this chapter is a bit spoilery for what's going on. It's very subtle, but it's a hint to the plot._

_Hope you all liked it!_

_Also—again—I'd like to thank my anonymous reviewers, whom I don't get to speak with often, but appreciate all the same._


	9. The Decision at Daybreak

Disclaimer: I do not own _Norgami._

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 09:_

_The Decision at Daybreak_

.

.

.

.

.

Hiyori bit her lip. "Nearly—done—" she blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, "—and—_there_." She fastened the last strip of cloth. Running her fingers over the bandages, she smoothed out the wrinkles, making sure that the wound was bound tightly. Satisfied, she let out a huff of a breath, smiling. "There you go, Esu." She stood, brushing off the hem of her kimono.

The lines marking the elderly woman's face pulled taut as she smiled. "Thank you, dear," she said, looking down at the cloth wrapping around her calf. "You are quite good, like your father."

"Oh, no," Hiyori laughed. "I'm nowhere near his skillset, but, thank you, nonetheless." She held out a hand and Esu took it, hobbling to her feet.

"So polite," Esu remarked knowingly.

Hiyori smiled, crouching down to tidy her workspace—jars of salves and dried herbs were piled together, alongside stray scraps of cloth that she had yet to use. Even a few pieces of kindling were lying about to be used as splints, like the one she had made for the young boy who had suffered from a sprained ankle. She piled them altogether on a spare shawl, wrapping it up and setting it on the bench where Esu had been seated. After rifling through her bundle, she found what she was searching for.

"Here," Hiyori said triumphantly, holding up a small, worn clay jar. She handed it to Esu, who took it dutifully. "Only use it twice a day—make sure you wet the powder, then spread it on clean cloths, and bind your wound with it. Remember to change the cloths here and there, to keep the wound clean." She advised.

Esu smiled, holding the jar in her calloused, wrinkled palms. "Of course, of course." She said, bowing despite her stooped back. "Thank you for your kindness."

Hiyori bowed in kind. "It was no trouble," she humbly said.

"You have a good day, now," Esu said, starting to hobble off down the lane, around the rubble of the ruined huts. "Tell your mother and father that I send them my greetings!"

"I will!" Hiyori called, waving. "Farewell!" She watched as Esu turned a corner, disappearing around a house.

Her arm slowly fell and Hiyori gripped at her elbow. She let out a sigh, her shoulders falling, and went back to her bench. She stared at the bundle of herbs and clay jars, and thought back to the woods—to many more clay jars and scraps of cloth wrapped around a wound.

_Yato-gami…_ She sighed. Hiyori had not seen him since the previous night—she had left him in the woods, underneath the pine tree, with only her shawl as a word of parting. He had been so ill and tired before that she could not bear the thought of waking him. More than that, lying against the tree trunk, he had seemed so young and vulnerable—spirit of any kind, he had seemed to be no older than her. That thought had played upon her caring, her pitying.

But more than that, Yato-gami had shown himself to be deserving of it, in a way. He had saved her—and whether it was a kindness for kindness, or her choosing to help him, Hiyori had done it all the same because he had as well. When he had not had to, he did. It had made her question whether or not he was so much of the terrible being she had thought him to be and now, she did not believe it to be true.

She was not sure that he had attacked Yama and Ami, or slaughtered all of those people in the countryside—she did not _want_ to believe that he had. Yato-gami, who seemed more misunderstood than murderous, was less of a mindless, dangerous spirit, she realized, than a cautious boy. For that—that one speck of humanity in him, which she had seen in the days prior—she wished him to be innocent.

Later in the evening, Hiyori had then set it in her mind to judge him for what she knew he had and could have done, as opposed to what he might have done. She had stared at the wall beside her bedding and had begun to think of him more as a person than a brute—and in those moments, she had worried for him more than she had before.

Hiyori frowned. Yato-gami, now, was still in the forest, she would bet—harmed and ill. He had nowhere to rest safely and with his wounds, she wondered how he would manage to procure food and water. _He was so pale…_ She remembered. Swallowing, Hiyori felt her hands tighten at her sides, gripping the skirt of her kimono. _He saved me,_ she thought. _I will save him, too, then._

Bending down, Hiyori leaned over her pile of herbs and jars—she tied it together in a bundle, then picked it up and held it close to herself. She glanced over her shoulder, saw no one, and then set off through the rows of huts—the ones still standing.

Villagers milled about, men cleaning the rubble away and salvaging what they could from the ruined homes. _Rebuilding will begin soon,_ Hiyori thought, watching as a group of villagers pulled out scraps of clothes and personal items from a wrecked huts.

As she headed farther down the lane, she saw more townspeople—those displaced by the attack, their belongings spread across the lawns of their neighbors who they were forced to take refuge with. A great deal of them were injured, bandaged and walking on canes, limbs in splints. Though none were killed in the attack, many had been hurt.

Hiyori's eyebrows furrowed as she recalled the exchange of a few patrolmen she had overheard that morning. They had conversed about the weather, the rice season, the oncoming summer, and then—inevitably—about the oddness of the attack. The beast had come and gone, seemingly with no other purpose but to rampage. But, the men shrugged, such were the strange ways of spirits. The elder's often told tales of the peculiar natures of the great beasts that roamed around the forests.

Gossips found their subject in the attack, too. They talked about the possibility of the wolf being the culprit behind all of the killings in the countryside—and Yama and Ami's attack, which had occurred not too long ago, though it felt like it. That claim, however, was dubious in its integrity—the attacks had seemed more from a sword than claws. And a predator of such ferocity, most felt, would have devoured its prey before it let it escape.

Hiyori shuddered at the memory of the wolf–spirit. Its dull eyes, contrasting with its gleaming, pointed claws—the way its thin, black lips had pulled back over its jagged teeth. The way it had attacked Yato-gami, only to back away, suddenly, as though encountering him had been its one desire…

She shook her head, rounding the corner of a beaten path around a hut. _Don't be foolish. _But, as of late, she found that only her most ridiculous thoughts made any sense whatsoever.

With a sigh, Hiyori looked up as she rounded the bend. She saw her father, then, by one of the huts, speaking with a young boy whose arm was bound in a splint. After a moment, Oda gave the boy a pat on the back and he went off down the lane.

"Father—!" Hiyori called, steadily approaching.

Oda turned, looking at her. The noontime sun showed how the past days had taken their toll on him—his hair was streaked with gray, his skin creased. Still, he smiled for her. "Hiyori," he said, walking forward. "Done for the day?"

Hiyori blinked, looking down at the bundle in her arms. "Oh, I—I was just going to rest a bit, for lunch." She said. "I was going to go on a walk. I can, can't I?"

"Of course," Oda said. "You've worked hard enough for the day, dear."

Smiling, Hiyori said. "Well, then, I'll be off, I suppose…" She turned, slowly.

"—Ah, Hiyori—!"

Turning back, she asked: "Yes?"

Oda hesitated. "Your mother—she was wondering if you might go and visit Miyu and Ami soon." He offered.

"Oh…" Hiyori blinked. She remembered yesterday, telling Miyu that she would come and see her when she could. She swallowed. "I— Sure." She said, with an appeasing smile.

Oda sighed. "Good, then—your mother will be pleased." He turned back to his bench by the house, rifling through his bundle of herbs and remedies.

Hiyori stood, though, and after a moment's silence, she ventured: "Father… Wha—What about Yama?"

Her father stilled, his hands still resting in his satchel. He stiffened, standing, and looked at her for a while.

She glanced away, unable to hold his gaze with levity.

He sighed. "Come here, Hiyori," Oda said, before settling down on the bench. He set his belongings down beside his feet, the worn fabric settling and sagging against the ground.

Slowly, Hiyori followed him, sitting down beside him, her hands covering the bundle in her lap. She was quiet, as was he, and they listened to the noonday bustle in the village—the men calling to one another as they cleared away the rubble; children laughing and shouting; women gossiping; the birds chattering and the spring breeze running through the valley. It was a day that made life seem as it had always been.

However, if she peered around the corner of the hut, she knew that she would see the demolished homes of her townspeople—perhaps a few citizens, hobbling around with bandages and splints. There would be patrolmen walking around, brandishing swords; gossips talking about the latest attack; the elder's chattering on about blessings and curses. Hiyori knew that she would not be able to speak to her friends, have a quiet evening with her parents. She knew that her journeys through the forest wood never be as they once were.

And as she looked at her father, she knew that he did, too. His gaze, as he looked out over their village, carried the same age his face did—but his eyes spoke of memories, worries, and knowing. Of what, though, she was not sure. "Hiyori," he began.

She blinked, looking down at her hands in her lap; she folded them together. "I— Yes?"

"I know that it has been hard for you," Oda said, "losing your two friends so soon." He hesitated. "Still, you must be patient. Yama is still unwell and has not awakened yet—neither has Ami. It is important to wait and pray for the gods' assistance." Then, he looked at her. "You must stay safe as well."

Hiyori blinked once more. "I—" She frowned confusedly. "What—?"

"I know that you have been wandering off." Oda confessed, without accusing, but with a weight of responsibility to his words.

There was a moment in which Hiyori felt as she had after the wolf's attack—stunned to the point of silence. She stared after her father, as he spoke.

Oda did not look at her; he still stared down the lane, his gaze somber. "I know you have been going to the shrine to pray for Yama and Ami." He glanced at her, and there was pity and understanding in his eyes. "I know that it has been hard for you, and that you want to do all you can to help people—your village, your family, your friends." He reached over and took her hands in his own. His gaze was imploring. "Still, I wish for you to be careful. We have yet to catch the one responsible for all of this, and with the attack yesterday… I worry for you."

Hiyori stared at him. She could not understand what he had said. He knew that she had been fleeing the house? And he had said 'shrine'. How had he known, though? Did he know where _else_ she had been to? "F—Father," she swallowed. "How—How did you know that I went to the shrine?"

Oda blinked, then looked at her. "Hatsue saw you coming, then going."

_Hatue,_ Hiyori thought. An elder of the village, one bearing the most weight for her words—a respectable and sanctimonious woman. She had seen Hiyori go to the shrine, then flee it… But she had not seen where, had she? If she had, then she surely would have told Oda—and he had thought that she was there 'to pray'. Were her encounters with Yato-gami still a secret? "O—Oh," she said, forcing a smile, looking down in faux humbleness at her hands; she curled her fingers into her palms at the sight of them trembling imperceptibly. "I—I see."

"Yes," Oda said, looking at her. "I know you wish to do all you can for your friends, Hiyori, but you must remember to be careful yourself. You still are hurt from the attack."

"I— Yes," she said, trying to be convincing, though she sounded weak to her own ears. She reached up, brushing her fingers against the strip of cloth binding the wound by her temple. "Of—Of course."

"Very well, then." Oda stood, offering Hiyori a hand as she went to her feet. "You can go on your walk, now." He waved.

Hiyori stood, looking at her feet. "I—" she swallowed. "I may go home, actually." She closed her eyes tightly; the words felt treacherous as she uttered them, as though she was breaking some unspoken oath.

Oda raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Y—Yes." Hiyori murmured. "I—I'm not feeling very well."

Looking at her concernedly, Oda said. "Alright, then. Go rest—I'll make sure to tell your mother."

"Tha—Thank you," Hiyori mumbled, before turning and setting off, towards her home.

.

.

.

Yato awoke to the taste of the ground. He let out a piteous groan, spitting out a glob of dirt and scowling when it smeared his chin. He clambered to his knees and reached an arm up to rub at his chin; it was then that he saw the shawl resting in his lap. And, more than that, the bandages covering his arm—he felt the sting of torn skin pulling.

He remembered it, then—the wolf, the village, the girl. _Hiyori,_ she had said.

Yato snorted, looking somberly at the ground. She was probably the one who had left him the shawl—_Hiyori._

Hiyori, the girl who seemed to be determined to help him no matter what stood in her way—be it a blow to the head or a colossal wolf. Hiyori, who had stayed at his side when he was delirious more than once. Hiyori, who always returned to the forest when she did not have to.

Yato let out a sigh, pressing his hand to his forehead—he had a splitting headache; like the one he had had when he had gone drinking with that other calamitous god…

He grit his teeth. He must have still been incoherent if he was in a mood to _reminisce_.

There was too much to think about, anyway—all of it was so befuddling. Yato was sure some of it must have been connected—the wolf, the village, the trail of corpses that followed him seemingly wherever he went—by some indiscernible, red thread, but he had no idea how to untangle the ball of knots that had him caught and suspended; a fly in a spider's web.

Yato clenched his jaw; his arm throbbed in time with his head, a perfect rhythm that resounded through him. Then, he let out a sigh. He was too tired for metaphors, or anything of the like.

Then, he looked at the strips of cloth binding his arm. They were stained with his blood; his pale, knobby arm smeared with it. It needed to be washed, he knew; but he had no desire to go to the brook…

Though, now, it hardly mattered what he _desired_. After all, he had an eighteen–centimeter length gash running down the length of his arm.

Lumbering to his feet, with a great show of swaying and a muttering of a few inarticulate words, Yato began the walk to the creek. He held on fast to his arm with his free hand, clamping his palm against wound. (It stung, but Yato found that it kept his mind from wandering.)

When he did reach the brook, he slowly unwound the strips of cloth, hissing at the feel of it unsticking and pulling from his raw, bleeding skin. He did his best not to look at the wound—it was hideous, though, and would most certainly scar—and remembered what the girl had told him: _keep it held high._ It was rather impossible, though, when he had to wash the cloths…

Yato sighed and went to work. He rubbed furiously at the makeshift wraps, flaking away the crusted blood as he held them under the burbling, cold water. His hands trembled and it was not long before his fingers were numb.

His mind wandered, though. He thought of the girl—_Hiyori_, he reminded himself.

Why she was so bent upon staying beside him was befuddling to him. She had no attachment to him, besides her ire, and he did not think that saving him was a sign of vengeful rage. Possibly stupidity or just amicability—but Yato had never known someone to be kind without reason. Though, he _had_ known people who were kind and as dull as stone.

Yato had to admit, though, that it _had_ been surprising—and perhaps just the slightest bit _inspiring_—to see her stand her ground against that spirit; that wolf who had to have been more than four times her build. Granted, his awe had been slightly dampened by her inability to _listen_ when he said 'run'.

Again, though, he wasn't sure if it was because she cared or because she was too stupid not to.

Yato sighed—he thought he was developing a habit of it—and looked down at the cloths. They squirmed in the water, dark, and the currents were clear below them.

He drew his hands out of the stream—they were no longer trembling; too numb from the cold.

.

.

.

Hiyori stared at the wall beside her bedding. After an afternoon of her mother's fussing and hanging kimonos to dry, and a meek dinner on a quiet evening where she said as little as she ate, she had gone to bed early. Though, she had slept little since.

Her thoughts drifted back to Yato-gami—and her exchange of words with her father. They did not know where she had gone, but they knew that she had been wandering. She had thought that she had been far more careful then to be caught, but she had been all the same. An elder had seen her go to and leave the shrine—had told Oda that she had been praying. But if that were true, than Hatsue would have seen her leaving with the water from the well. Had she simply not seen Hiyori carrying the pail? Or had she been false with Oda—if so, why?

Hiyori buried her face into her bedding, rubbing her cheek against the coarse cloth and squishing her nose against it. She did not know. All she knew was that she had nearly been caught—and that if she was, this time for real, the consequences would be dire. Cavorting with a spirit, and one of such dubious claims, would do neither her nor Yato-gami any good.

She had decided to remain home, if only for the evening. _To keep them both safe,_ she had thought.

But Hiyori felt guilt for it still, because she knew that she feared discovery and punishment—that she hid not for the good of Yato-gami, but for the good of herself. She wished that she might be braver for him—because she had resolved to help him, had she not? She had resolved to strive to do all she could for him, had she not?

Then why was she here, cowering, like she had the day before, against a foe beyond her strength?

Hiyori looked blearily at the wall.

"—foolish, Chikako. …too hasty…"

She blinked.

"—hasty—?! I— …peoples' _lives_, Oda!"

_M—Mother…? _Hiyori stilled._ Father…?_

"—know that…than anyone…!"

Hiyori rose slowly to her knees, her bedding pooling beside her knees; she stumbled closer to the wall, from behind which the voices carried—through the open slat–window, resting above her bed—and pressed the side of her face against the boards. She could hear, now, the hushed words her parents spoke.

"Then why," her mother pleaded, "are you speaking like this?"

"Because," her father countered, "it seems to be the only way you will understand!"

"Understand," Chikako cried. "Understand what? That you're willing to let innocent people die, all for the sake of what _you_ think is keeping the peace?"

Oda replied, somberly: "I know what is keeping the peace and what is not, just as I know more than any of you what it is like to see death, to try and escape it, and to fail all the same. Do not speak as though you are the only one who knows loss, Chikako."

Her mother was quiet, 'til she ventured: "I know that this has made you suffer. I know—but you must try to see that I am doing my best to end it all."

"The patrol has done nothing for this village, Chikako," her father said.

"You must give it more time, Oda," she insisted.

"—For them to do nothing but cause more trouble?" Oda questioned, strongly.

"For them to do what they have set out to!" Chikako declared.

Oda countered: "They will do nothing of the sort—you saw them during the attack, Chikako. They ran about like fools! They did nothing for the village!"

"It will not happen again," Chikako implored. "They will do better—they _can_ do better—"

"—They can do nothing but run about, brandishing swords when they are not needed, but keeping them withdrawn when they are!" Oda hollered.

There was silence, then—Hiyori could hear the crickets. Her father spoke, then: "I do not wish to argue pettily, Chikako. I merely wish for what is best for this village." After a moment, he murmured. "I am going to bed—we might wake up Hiyori, at this rate." Then, she could hear his footfalls nearing the doorframe.

Hiyori scampered underneath the covers quickly, tucking herself firmly in her bedding. She heard the mat rustle as Oda entered the hut. He let out a sigh, and she heard the flutter of the covers being settled into.

Her mother did not come back in—she waited, but heard nothing.

.

.

.

The morning meal was tense and quiet—it was Chikako and Hiyori, and only them, for Oda had departed earlier, before the latter had awakened. Hiyori decided not to comment on that for a lack of curiosity and a lack of a desire to worsen her mother's mood. However, she felt that if she was forced to sit and merely listen to the _clink_ of chopsticks against wooden bowls for one more second, she might scream.

Hiyori swallowed a globule of rice. "M—Mother—?" She questioned, setting her bowl down.

Chikako looked at her. There were dark circles that cut her pale skin, underneath her eyes. She had not slept well last evening, if at all. "Yes?"

Hiyori caught sight of her bowl—it was still full. She swallowed. "I— May I go for a walk?" She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. She felt guilty for leaving her mother in such a state; but she had to help Yato-gami—she was sure of that. She couldn't abandon him, alone and bleeding, in the forest.

There was a moment of silence, before Chikako sighed. "Yes."

"Thank you," Hiyori murmured, bowing, before standing. She went to the doorway—

"—Hiyori?"

Stilling, she turned, looking over her shoulder. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest. "Y—Yes?"

Chikako was looking across the room, kneeling alone in their hut. She looked tired and worn. Still, glancing at her daughter, she smiled, much like her husband had the day before. "Be safe." She said at last.

Hiyori blinked, quashing the belated thought of, _does mother know that I went to the shrine, too?_ "O—Of course." She said, abashed, before pushing the mat aside. "I—I love you, Mother."

"I love you, too." Came Chikako's reply.

Hiyori disappeared out of sight, behind the swishing of the mat.

.

.

.

Yato let out a disgruntled sigh.

He had not slept well—tree branches were uncomfortable at the best of times; at the worst, when injured and exhausted, they were painful. He recalled better times, sleeping on futons and floors, with a wistfulness that made him seem as old as he was.

Balancing with feline–like finesse, Yato sat up, his back no longer pressed uncomfortably against the rough bark of the tree. He lifted his arms above his head and stretched, relishing in the _cracks_ and _pops_ the joints of his back made.

As he lowered his arm, he eyed the bandages distastefully. They were still spotted with blood—the clotting was slow, as it tended to be with gashes. All he could do, it seemed, was rest—which was a wishful but improbable option—and hope for some decent fortune to come his way, (which was even _more_ unlikely).

He scowled.

Then, he sighed, shoulders slumped. He barely had the strength to be appropriately peevish.

Slowly, Yato eased off of the branch—less high than his usual resting place—and fell to the ground in a crouch. His muscles ached against the effort and the cold. He knew that, despite his antipathy for it, he had to go to the brook to wash his bandages. _Again._ Yato felt that he should get out of the habit of getting injured, considering the necessity of care from it was far more painful than the wounds themselves.

As he headed around the pine, he heard: "H—Hello…?"

Yato blinked, eyes narrowing. He looked over his shoulder, though his view was blocked by the tree's trunk. He knew that voice…

"H—Hello?"

Quickly, Yato weighed his options—he could disappear, which would not be very hard; or he could stay, which would probably very awkward and potentially dangerous. (And might result from further injury, as the girl tended to have that effect on him.) Though, she could _also_ choose to help him, which would be beneficial.

Deciding on the latter, Yato slowly rounded the tree, a hand resting on its side.

—There was the girl. _Hiyori, the villager._ She was wearing one of her kimonos, a shawl tucked over her shoulder, the same color and coarseness as the one that she had left with him. Her hair was down, though, for the first time since they had met in the forest—days ago, he realized, though it felt much longer. Her hands were folded in front of her and she was biting her lip. When she saw him, though, her eyes widened. _Pink,_ he saw and still felt it to be odd. "H—Hello," she said.

"…Hello." Yato said in turn.

They stood for a few moments in awkward silence.

Yato swallowed, looking at the ground, then away into the forest. It was morning, now, and light was filtering in through the canopy of pine needles. "Did—Did you come back for your shawl?" He asked.

Hiyori blinked. "I— What?"

"Your shawl." Yato repeated, looking at her. "You left it, last time."

"Oh." She breathed, blinking again. She had the same brief span of physical reactions as a koi fish, he noticed. "N—No; but I—well, I will take it back, but—but no," she winced, "that wasn't my reason for coming here." She finished, meekly.

Yato blinked. "Oh." He said, swallowing.

After another span of silence, Hiyori looked at him—she took a tentative step forward, one hand reaching towards him, the other clutched the knot that held her shawl together. "I—" she swallowed. "—How—How is your wound?" She ventured.

Looking down at his bandaged arm, slowly, Yato blinked. "My wound?" He paused. "It—It's fine, I guess." He rubbed at the back of his neck.

Hiyori tilted her head to the side, looking at it, too. "It— Your bandages are dirty."

Yato blinked. "What?"

"Your bandages." She repeated, taking another step forward. "They're stained. The blood from your wound has seeped into them." She walked closer.

He, in turn, took an uncertain step backwards, bumping into the tree. "What're you—?"

But she was in front of him, now, reaching for his arm. "Let me see—"

Pulling his arm back, Yato managed, awkwardly and forcefully: "What are you _doing?"_

Blinking, Hiyori looked taken aback. She stared at him, her hand still held midair. "I—I was going to see your wound," she said, weakly; then, she took a step back. "I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"—N—No," Yato said, quickly. He felt a pull of guilt in his gut. Swallowing, he rubbed at the back of his head and looked firmly at his bare feet—his toes dug into the ground. "It—It was rude of me to…shout…"

Hiyori looked at him for a long moment; then, smiled, a bit awkwardly, but perhaps—he thought dubiously—genuinely. "I— Would you like me to take a look at it?" She ventured, after a moment had passed.

"I—" Yato blinked, staring at her. "S—…Sure."

She nodded, biting her lip, and took his arm. Her hands were soft, he noted. She unwrapped the strips of cloth with practiced ease, like she had in their previous encounters, and held them in a bundle in her hands. Carefully, she inspected the wound. "It—It looks like it's healing well," she said, after a moment. She smiled fleetingly.

"Oh—" Yato muttered. "G—Good, then."

"I—I'll go wash these, if you'd like," Hiyori offered. "I can re–bandage your arm when I get back from the brook…?"

"Um, s—sure." He responded uncertainly.

She nodded quickly and then went off around the tree, towards the brook. It was only after he could not hear her footsteps that Yato let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping; he leaned against the tree, slowly sitting.

He could scarcely believe it—but, then again, it was not a miracle. A stray cat tended to return to whatever doorstep gave it a bowl of cream. Still, she was hardly a loose animal—if anyone was a waif, it was him. Why, then, did she come back? Why did she help him? What could she gain from him? After days of accusations and thoughts of distrust, why would she choose to save him rather than let him rot? Yato rattled the question around the inside of his mind, but could find no rebuttal despite his attempts to discover an answer.

Yato sighed, rubbing at his shoulder. He stared off into the forest—waiting, watching, listening.

He heard the twigs crackle underfoot as she approached him. The girl—_Hiyori,_ he reminded himself forcefully—rounded the tree; the bundle of damp bandages in her hands. She knelt slowly and carefully in front of him, as one might approach a wounded and feral beast. (The comparison did little to improve his mood or opinion of her.)

"H—Here," she said, awkwardly and quietly, reaching to pull his arm over.

Yato blinked.

Hiyori took his arm in her hand and told him: "hold it up." Then, she let it go—Yato did not look at the angry, red color tingeing the edge of the gash—and picked up one of the pieces of cloth. "This may sting," she warned.

Swallowing, Yato nodded belatedly.

Then, she set to her task, wrapping his arm with gentle hands. She bit her lip all the while, eyeing his limb intently.

Yato looked away—rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand—while she diligently worked, bandaging his arm with the damp strips of cloth. It felt discomforting to have someone so unfamiliar be so close; he could not recall the last time he had been centimeters away from a person without driving a sword through them—

Clenching his jaw, he told himself, firmly: _No. Don't think about it._

"Oh," Hiyori blinked, pulling back; her fingers curled into her palms. "I—I'm sorry. Did I— Did I wrap it too tightly?" She asked concernedly.

"N—No," Yato managed to mutter, looking down at his feet. "No. It's—It's fine." He rubbed at the back of his head.

Hiyori swallowed, then, folding her hands in her lap. "Then, I… I suppose I should… I should go…" She clambered to her feet, brushing off her kimono.

"S—Sure," Yato said stupidly, following her to his feet.

They stood quietly and it was tense enough that you could have cut the air between them with a kunai.

"The—Then, farewell," the girl said, swallowing, and slowly walked away—she raised a hand in a sign of departure, meters away.

He waved back meekly; though, in moments, she was gone—having disappeared from the dark forest to the clear, morning light that flooded her valley. Still, Yato thought that he might have seen her smile, faintly.

Looking back towards the tree, though, Yato let out a flippant curse.

He had forgotten to give her her shawl.

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: I am so, so sorry that this is late. I had to study for an AP Chemistry test, and...well, it was awful, if that makes any of you guys feel better. As a present, though, two chapters!_

_Reviews, (even if it's to tell me how much hate me, now), are appreciated._


	10. The Path Through the Countryside

Disclaimer: I do not own _Noragami._

.

.

.

.

.

_Chapter 10:_

_The Path Through the Countryside_

.

.

.

.

.

Yato stared out into the forest.

It had been nearly a day since the girl's visit. His wound had begun to heal—it was still disgusting to look at, so he tried his best not to do so when he wrapped it; which was much harder than it sounded, single–handedly. Somehow, though, he managed, after many muttered curses and fits of peevishness.

He had not seen the girl in that time. Yato had the suspicion that she might return, though, and it made him more curious than ever.

For a while, he had toyed with the questions in his mind like a cat might with a ball of yarn—had pondered it often enough that he knew that he would find no answers. He thought over their encounters occasionally; he found nothing of significance that honestly piqued his interest.

Not quite like her, at least.

And she was befuddling—from her eyes to her personality. She was a mortal, but she was different from her ilk. Yato did not know if her charity came from kindness or stupidity, though he had a vague inkling that it might be the former.

Yato sighed, propping up his chin with his hand, his elbow resting on his crooked knee.

For a moment, he felt disappointed in himself; that his life was dull enough that he spent his time thinking about a human girl, and not even in a remotely entertaining way. Then, he just felt tired; his arm ached, as did his shoulder, though the latter wound was far more healed than the former.

(However, he was not so lackluster that he did not have other things to occupy his thoughts—his wound reminded him of the wolf–spirit that had rampaged days ago in her village. Though, he had liked to think that the brute had run off at the sight of a god, he knew glumly that it was unlikely. Then, why had it come and gone in such a brief but disastrous way, for seemingly no purpose? Yato did not know and chose—for a moment—to let that be that.)

He looked up, then, through the pine's branches and up at the solitary, gray sky—a storm was coming; this pleasantly cool front was just to lay peoples worries to rest before they were drenched.

Yato swallowed, letting out a breath from his nose—he leaned back against the tree, his chin resting upwards. A restless moment later, he glanced once more at the ground below him. He would have to find shelter, eventually. With a sigh, he slowly lumbered off his branch, landing on the ground in a crouch.

(It was only later that he remembered that the girl's name was 'Hiyori'.)

.

.

.

Hiyori slowly placed the clay jar on its shelf, next to those of its kind. They were empty, all of them—she had washed them prior—mostly due to the colossal amount of herbs needed to treat the wounded in the village. She had felt some moderate guilt for giving a part of the small store to Yato-gami; though, she knew, reluctantly, that she would have done it once more if given the same chance.

Brushing off the skirt of her kimono, she glanced around the hut—it was empty; her mother was speaking with some friends of hers, displaced by the attack, and her father had left for a nearby trading village to gather more plants for medicinal purposes. Though it was possible to simply search for them in the forests and fields, he did not have the time; and with the recent attacks, it seemed far too dangerous to do so.

By herself, then, Hiyori had done her best to tidy up their home. Her father's hectic work life and her mother's resulting poor moods had left a thick kind of tension in the air, making mealtime awkward and evenings by themselves oppressively silent. Hiyori hoped to take some of the worry off of her parents' shoulders by taking on some of the work herself.

Walking to the doorway, Hiyori moved the reed mat aside, glancing out—the sky was a bleak gray. It was crisply cool out, a little blustery, and she knew that a storm would soon be in. (It was for that reason that she had not washed any of the bedding.)

She wondered, belatedly, how Yato-gami would fare on his own and in the forest, with the rain. She had left him her shawl, but that wouldn't do much—and he had nowhere to rest, alone in his tree… Hiyori bit her lip. Perhaps she could visit him—bring him some things…

Hiyori let out a sigh, stepping back and letting the mat _swish_ back in place. If she was to see Yato-gami, she would have to do so subtly and without preamble—but if her mother returned and found that she had left the house without reason, she would be suspicious… (Though, Hiyori doubted that Chikako knew about her excursions—still, one word from Oda could change all that quickly.)

Pausing, Hiyori tapped her chin with her forefinger. _What should I do—?_ She blinked; then, she recalled what her father had said a day ago—how her mother had wanted her to see Miyu…

Walking quickly to her futon, Hiyori took her shawl from its place by her bedding and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then, she swallowed, paused at the doorway, glanced once and only once, before leaving the hut.

She bristled at the cold—the wind pinched her cheeks and made the bare skin of her ankles spring up with gooseflesh. She bustled through the village—doing her best to ignore the wreckage—passing her townspeople with a wave or a word of greeting; though, her mind was not very present during these brief conversations.

Hiyori thought of Miyu—she hoped that the she would be pleased with her abrupt visit; then again, perhaps she should have arranged a meeting beforehand. Hiyori swallowed, pursing her lips—_too late to turn back, now._

Then, she thought of Ami. Though her friends were always lingering somewhere within her thoughts, her heart, Hiyori realized belatedly and surprisingly that she had not thought as often of Ami and Yama these past few days. Worried for them, of course—but she had been so concerned with Yato-gami that her mind had simply…wandered.

She blinked, stilling in the middle of the street.

When had _that_ occurred? Hiyori did not know, but the prospect was frightening and left her guilt–ridden. The thought that her friends and their conditions could simply escape her notice was…terrible. She felt wretched for it. How could she? Were her own problems that she wished to deal with a viable excuse to ignore her friends? When had she started to drift farther away from them?

_After I met Yato-gami?_ Hiyori felt her hands tremble. Could that be? Had his appearance suddenly made her simply notice less? Was it so? She stared. When had she begun to care more about a boy in the woods than her own friends?

—_But, no,_ she told herself firmly. That was as unfair as it was untrue—she had not begun to care any less for Ami and Yama and their plights. She had simply become more preoccupied and absentminded; but she cared for them no less than she had before. Perhaps Yato-gami's appearance _had_ made her less attentive, but it did not effect her feelings for her friends.

If so, then she would simply try her hardest to be there for them more. She would do it, too; for their sake's.

Hiyori nodded strongly; then, hands curling tightly into balls, she set on her way once more.

Though Ami's house was a ways out, it was not so far, and as she rounded the bend from the village she saw it, sitting on the hill by the forest. She could see smoke rising from the chimney, too; and her heart rose at that, because Hiyori knew that someone, then, must be home.

She made the hike up the hill briskly, holding her shawl close; the wind blew her hair—tied back—nearly loose, it was so strong. As Hiyori walked to the doorway, she ignored the tremor of anxiety in her gut and called out: "H—Hello—?" Then, after a moment of silence: "Is—Is anyone there?"

Then, the reed mat pushed open, and Miyu stood before her.

Hiyori blinked, staring. Ami's mother looked weary—not tired, but overworked, as though the strenuous things that had been happening weighed on her shoulders more than anyone else's. When she saw Hiyori, her eyes widened and she blinked. "Hiyori!"

With a forced and embarrassed smile, Hiyori bowed, saying with sheepishness: "Hello, Miyu."

Miyu returned the gesture belatedly and said: "What a surprise, to see you here, of all days."

"Oh, I— Let me apologize," Hiyori said. She looked at her. "I should have sent word, but I was passing by, and, I figured you would like some company…" She trailed off. Then: "But, if you would like, I can leave…?"

Raising a hand to her, Miyu said, belatedly: "Oh, no, it's—" She swallowed and then, smiled, f. "—it's fine, dear. You can come in." Then, she moved the mat aside, allowing Hiyori to pass by her before following suit. The mat fluttered to its place, and the hut was closed off from the cold light of the bleak day.

"You may sit down, if you would like," Miyu offered, moving towards the hearth, by the shelves, which were stacked above it.

Hiyori nodded belatedly, saying a quiet: "thank you," before kneeling to the floor, settling there. The warmth from the fire felt wonderful against her cold skin, and her ears and nose burned from it. Rubbing absently at her hand, she looked around the dim hut. Her gaze found Ami, resting, heaped under blankets, by the wall.

She was pale—thin and gaunt, her dark hair resting by her face. Her arms, tucked beside her, were sticks; her wrists were bony. Hiyori felt guilt so strong it made her feel ill; sadness so aching it made her cringe. She could almost not bear to see her, this way. She was so different, from only a few days' course of time, than she had been on that spring afternoon.

Once more, Hiyori felt as though she were kilometers away from it all—from the girl that she had been days ago; from the memories of her friends; from comfort and safety, the feeling of home, truth, and sure–footing. She felt lonely. Looking away from Ami, she stared at her hands, folded in her lap.

"—yori? …Hiyori?"

Blinking, she looked up. Miyu was staring at her, holding two clay jars in either hand. "Oh, I—I'm sorry."

Miyu's eyebrows were furrowed. "No trouble," she said, evenly; then: "Would you like tea?"

"I—" she knew she had no stomach for it; but she felt that it would be rude to decline. "—Yes, please. That would be wonderful." She moved her lips to make a smile.

Looking at her, then away, Miyu nodded silently after a moment. She turned away, busying herself with preparing the tea. Hiyori listened to the sound of the clamoring as best she could, rubbing at her arms, hoping to rid herself of the gooseflesh that had sprung up on her skin.

After some time, the tea was done. Miyu poured both Hiyori and herself a cup, handing one dutifully to her.

"Thank you," Hiyori bowed.

"No trouble," Miyu said, once more, returning the gesture before taking a sip from her cup. The tension seemed to leave her and she nearly slumped as she sat.

Hiyori set her cup down carefully beside her, listening to the _clink_ it made as it lay on the floorboards. She swallowed, looking at the cup and then at Miyu.

Then, a gust of wind rattled the hut—the flames flickered in the hearth, and the woven reed mat fluttered restlessly.

"Oh," Miyu said, surprised. "Such a blustery day." Looking at Hiyori, she said: "It must have been cold coming over here—such trouble for you."

"No—there was no trouble, really." Hiyori said, emphasizing politeness.

Miyu smiled. "Oh, well; good, then." She took another sip of tea. "I do appreciate the visit—I can get lonely here, by myself. And it's worrisome and tedious, looking after Ami by my lonesome…" She swallowed, staring over at her daughter. Then, she let out a laugh, though it sounded choked; she placed a hand on her cheek. "But, of course, you must know what it is like, in your own way. You must miss her terribly, too."

Forcing a placating smile, Hiyori felt as though she was slowly and deliberately being strangled. With trembling fingers, she gripped the cup and took a slow sip; she tried not to choke as it scalded its way down her throat. "I—" she said, then: "—yes. I—I do…very much." She looked down at the cup, resting in her hands on her lap.

Eyebrows furrowing, Miyu frowned, leaning forward and reaching across the space between them to place a hand on Hiyori's arm. "Let me apologize, dear," she said: "I know how hard it must be—I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No," Hiyori murmured, forcing a smile. "No, it's—it's fine."

Miyu retracted her hand, looking down at her cup. "I—I have been missing company, lately. What with caring for Ami, and the patrol searches being widened—Hatō's hardly ever home…"

Hiyori, sipping on her tea, felt her breath catch in her throat. She let out a spluttering cough, nearly dropping her cup and placing a hand on her chest firmly. Blinking, she let out a rough breath.

"Oh, Hiyori!" Miyu exclaimed worriedly, leaning forward. "Are you alright, dear?"

"—I—" she gasped, but then looked at Miyu, ignoring the burning in her throat. "—Did you—Did you say that they were widening the area for patrol?"

Blinking, Miyu retracted her hands, saying: "Why, yes, I think. Your mother told me so. They want to guard the village against that wolf–spirit that attacked, she said—that's how you got that mark on your head, isn't it?" She said, pity in her voice.

Hiyori brushed the strip of cloth, pressed against her forehead and temple. "I— Yes, but—" She shook her head, then asked, trying to reel in her shock and earnestness. "H—How far are they going to be searching, now?" She swallowed, her hands gripping her knees.

Miyu frowned. "In the fields; perhaps to the mountain's base to the east; in the forest…—"

Her eyes widened. Hiyori stood quickly, knocking over her cup in the process—tea spilled across the floor. "I—I'm sorry, Miyu, but I—I have to go—" She stumbled to the doorway.

"A—Ah, Hiyori—!"

Pausing, her hand on the the doorframe, Hiyori turned. "Thank you for the tea—!" She blurted, before fleeing out of the hut. She did not look back; she heard Miyu call something to her, but she did not turn back to answer or ask. She _had_ to see her mother.

Hiyori stumbled down the hill, doing her best not to fall. _Please, _please _don't fall,_ she begged silently.

Then, she raced to town, her feet _thudding_ against the ground hard that she felt it jar up to her chest. She breathed heavily—and though it hurt, though she might've liked nothing more than to rest, she kept running.

Hiyori could hear Miyu's words, interspersed with her own footfalls: _"The patrol searches being widened… In the fields; perhaps to the mountain's base to the east; in the forest…"_ She winced, and willed herself to run faster. She had to get home—she would speak with her mother about it, make sure that it was true; and then she would tell Yato-gami. She had to—if they found him, it would not bode well for either of them.

Dashing through the debris of the marketplace and other huts lining the road, Hiyori almost fell from relief when she saw her house. Her head–wound throbbed, her lungs burning and her legs aching. Still, she fought a cry of thankfulness when she saw that smoke was coming from the chimney; her father was still away, she was sure, so it _must_ be her mother…

She burst into the hut. "Moth—"

"—Oh, my; why are we in such a rush?"

Then, Hiyori blinked. She stared.

Chikako sat by the hearth, looking at her anxiously; she knit her hands together worriedly. Across from her sat an elderly, wrinkled woman, her kimono clean and large, with gaping sleeves and many folds.

_Hatsue,_ the village elder.

Hatsue—the one who had seen her go to the shrine.

The old woman tilted her head to the side. She smiled, then; it was forceful. "Hello, Hiyori," she peered at her from underneath sagging eyelids. "Do you mind if I have a word with you?"

.

.

.

Yato gazed out at the bleak sky. Oh, it would rain, yes—he was sure of that. He let out a sigh.

After a great deal of searching and exploring—and contracting a mild case of poison ivy; or oak, or some other deadly variety—he had found a cave to weather through the downpour in. It was unsightly, but Yato figured that there were not many slightly caves.

Then, he heard a rumble of thunder, arching across the valley, through the forest. He scowled distastefully at the bleak sky.

_Yes,_ he thought.

There was going to be quite a storm.

.

.

.

.

.

_A/N: ...But, just because I update doesn't mean there can't be a cliffhanger. Surprise (and sorry)!_

_Reviews are _still_ appreciated!_


End file.
